GReenuaooD 


STORIES  AND  SKETCHES 


STORIES  AND  SKETCHES 


BY 

GRACE  GREENWOOD 

AUTHOR  OF 
'MY  TOUR  IN  EUROPE,"  "QUEEN  VICTORIA,  HER  GIRLHOOD 

AND   WOMANHOOD,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

TAIT,  SONS  &   COMPANY 

UNION  SQUARE 


COPYRIGHT,  1892,  BY 
SARA  J.  LIPPINCOTT 


flbarfa  Xouise  fcool 


*IS>EN   AND  STILL   RISING  STAR   OF   AMERICAN    FICTIOI> 
ADMIRINGLY    INSCRIBE   THIS   COLLECTION   OF 


VERY   MISCELLANEOUS   SKETCHES 

Grace  Greenwood 


203'71LO 


CONTENTS. 


Washington  as  he  Was — In  Camp,  Salon,  and  Stable 7 

Worthy  to  come  Next 30 

Three  Great  Women 38 

How  we  Stormed  Pike's  Peak,  before  the  Railway 50 

How  we  Stormed  the  Rigi,  in  spite  of  the  Railway 73 

Two  Old  Heads 85 

The  Chevalier 92 

The  Vindication  of  Italia  Donati 103 

Great  Burial  Places  and  Great  Graves  in  London 116 

The  Member  from  Carlow 133 

A  Peculiar  City 146 

Two  Sermons  on  One  Text 157 

Two  Saints  not  in  the  Calendar 178 

Running  Away  with  a  Balloon 187 

How  Malcolm  Cam'  Hame 197 

A  Night  of  Tears 206 


WASHINGTON  AS  HE  WAS— IN  CAMP, 
SALON  AND  STABLE. 


I  REMEMBER  when,  on  the  morning  of  April  15th, 
1865,  there  was  a  sound  of  weeping  in  thousands  of 
Northern  homes,  and  "  all  the  air  seemed  full  of 
floating  bells,"  tolling  for  Abraham  Lincoln,  my  be- 
loved mother,  while  pinning  a  badge  of  crape  over 
her  sad  heart,  said — "He  is  the  first  President  I 
have  worn  mourning  for,  since  Washington." 

The  words  brought  a  startling  rapprochement  of 
the  times — but  not  the  men.  Dear  "  Father  Abra- 
ham "  I  could  see  clearly,  even  through  tears — but 
Washington  was  still  veiled  from  me,  by  a  haze 
of  glory — not  visible  to  common  mortal  sight,  as  a 
fellow-mortal,  to  be  loved  and  mourned. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  though  there  are  yet  liv- 
ing those  who  almost  remember  Washington,  and 
though  innumerable  memoirs  of  him  have  been 
written,  few  details  of  his  private  life,  of  his  daily 


8  WASHINGTON  AS  HE  WAS, 

walk  and  conversation,  are  extant.  Was  it  that  he 
had  so  few  homely  human  traits  and  happenings — 
that  he  was  too  ideal  and  heroic  for  gossip?  Is  it 
that  Jenkins  is  a  later  result  of  art  and  civilization? 
In  every  direction  hi  which  we  have  looked  for 
anecdote,  for  little  characteristic  personal  habits  and 
modes  of  expression,  we  have  been  more  or  less  dis- 
appointed. Weems  betrayed  our  infant  credulity, 
and,  later,  Custis  "  kept  the  word  of  promise  to  our 
ear,  to  break  it  to  our  hope,"  for  Washington  is 
almost  as  much  a  stately,  stalking  Ossianic  shade  in 
the  recollections  of  his  adopted  son,  as  hi  the  pages 
of  his  most  dry  and  formal  historian.  We  cannot 
imagine  "  little  Washington  "  ever  having  climbed 
on  to  great  Washington's  knee,  played  with  his 
watch-seals,  or  galloped  about  on  his  gold-headed 
cane.  There  is  no  indication  of  his  ever  having  been 
caressed  or  flogged  by  his  grandmamma's  august 
husband ;  yet  there  must  have  been  such  dear  and 
ultimate  associations  and  recollections. 

In  looking  over  Watson's  Annals  the  other  day,  I 
fastened  with  avidity  on  the  author's  sketch  of  old 
Hannah  Till,  who  for  six  years  served  hi  the  estab- 
lishment of  General  Washington  as  cook,  and  for 
half  a  year  was  lent  to  Lafayette.  Think  what  a 
rich  mine  of  Ethiopian  reminiscence  !  But  the  old 
annalist  seems  to  have  feared  to  work  it,  though  he 


IN  CAMP,  SALON  AND  STABLE.  9 

pleasantly  adds  to  his  meagre  report :  "  More  might 
be  said,  but  it  might  savor  of  gossip  to  say  more. 
She  has  since  gone  to  her  reward."  And  it  was  full 
time,  for  the  estimable  Hannah  attained  to  the  some- 
what over-ripe  age  of  a  hundred  and  five. 

On  the  question  of  her  master's  piety,  old  Han- 
nah's testimony  is  not  very  explicit.  She  "  expected 
that  he  prayed,  but  she  never  knew  that  he  did." 

When  the  subject  of  his  occasional  profanity  is 
broached,  we  feel  that  that  important  and  long  dis- 
puted question  is  to  be  settled  ;  for  a  man  may  pos- 
sibly be  a  hero  to  his  valet,  but  never  a  saint  to  his 
cook.  We  feel  that  we  are  to  have  the  final  judg- 
ment of  the  kitchen  tribunal  on  the  most  sacred  and 
august  character  of  modern  times ;  yet  here  also 
Hannah  is  a  little  evasive.  Her  reply,  put  in  rather 
stilted  language,  was  that  ideas  about  religion  were 
not  very  strict  in  those  days,  and  that  she  thought 
the  General  did  not  always  guard  against  the  sin  of 
profanity,  in  moments  of  excitement.  Then  she 
pensively  added  that  she  well  remembered  an  occa- 
sion when  she  had  the  honor  to  so  move  that  serene 
and  lofty  spirit  from  its  habitual  equipoise,  that  he 
called  her  "  a  cussed  old  fool,"  which  is  satisfactory 
as  far  as  it  goes.  Yet  one  would  like  to  know 
whether  the  occasion  was  muddy  coffee  or  under- 
done flap-jacks. 


10  WASHINGTON  AS  HE  WAS, 

In  Haverhill,  Mass.,  they  have  a  pretty  tradition 
about  Washington.  When  he  visited  that  town,  on 
his  Northern  tour  in  1789,  he  stopped  at  a  public- 
house.  As  the  night  was  chilly,  the  landlady 
decided  that  his  bed  should  be  warmed,  and  for  this 
purpose  filled  with  coals  her  best  brass  warming- 
pan,  and  sent  it  up  to  his  chamber  in  the  hands  of 
her  fair  young  daughter.  The  tradition  goes  on  to 
say  that  this  modest  maiden  was  so  overcome  by 
the  sight  of  the  great  man,  standing  on  the  hearth, 
winding  up  his  watch,  that  she  hurried  through  her 
task,  but  in  tripping  from  the  room  she  unluckily, 
or  luckily,  as  the  event  proved,  stumbled  and  fell, 
and  that  Washington  not  only  lifted  her  to  her  feet, 
but  kissed  her. 

Well  was  it  for  the  "immortal  chief"  that  no 
Yankee  Prince  Giglio  appeared  upon  the  scene,  to 
come  down  on  that  anointed  head  with  the  warm- 
ing-pan ! 

Now,  they  have  in  Philadelphia  a  tradition  which 
strikingly  contrasts  with  the  above.  When  Wash- 
ington was  residing  in  the  Presidential  Mansion  on 
High  Street,  now  Market,  some  painters  were  en- 
gaged in  painting  the  upper  hall,  and  one  of  them, 
a  gay  young  fellow,  meeting  one  morning,  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  a  favorite  maid  of  Mrs.  Wash- 
ington, not  only  barred  her  passage,  but  kissed  her. 


IN  CAMP,  SALON  AND  STABLE.  11 

Taken  by  surprise,  the  damsel  sent  forth  a  scream 
which  brought  the  Father  of  his  Country  in  alarm 
from  his  chamber.  Immediately  on  the  offence  being 
made  known  to  him,  he  elevated  his  foot,  which  was 
by  no  means  a  small  one,  and  kicked  the  unlucky 
painter  downstairs ! 

Where,  save  in  the  great  character  of  a  Washing- 
ton, may  we  find  united  such  amiable  weakness,  and 
such  severe  virtue  ? 

Awhile  since,  in  looking  over  a  Philadelphia 
Directory  for  1797,  my  heart  gave  a  great  bound  as 
I  came  upon  this  entry : 

"  WASHINGTON,  GEOKGE,  190  nigh  Street." 

To  the  disgrace  of  Philadelphia,  that  house,  second 
only  in  historic  interest  to  Independence  Hall,  was 
many  years  ago  demolished. 

But,  for  a  few  charmed  hours  of  a  mid-summer 
evening,  some  twenty  years  ago,  that  mansion  stood 
again  for  me,  and  Washington  walked  before  my 
eyes,  "  in  his  habit  as  he  lived ; "  and  yet  the  only 
magic  conjuration  was  the  clear  memory  of  a  gra- 
cious old  man,  who,  in  his  early  childhood,  was  a 
neighbor  of  Washington,  his  parents  living  on 
Sixth  Street,  near  High  Street. 

At  the  house  of  a  friend  in  Philadelphia,  Gen. 
Hector  Tyndal,  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to  meet  this 


12  WASHINGTON  AS  HE  WAS, 

Mr.  Robert  E.  Gray,  a  man  past  fourscore,  but  won- 
derfully well  preserved — looking  much  younger 
than  his  years — a  gentleman  of  the  old  school  in 
courteousness  of  manner  and  neatness  of  dress,  tall 
and  stately,  and  with  a  fresh  and  handsome  counte- 
nance. In  person  and  demeanor,  he  reminded  me 
strongly  of  Walter  Savage  Landor,  as  I  saw  him  in 
his  eighty-first  year. 

When  I  asked  Mr.  Gray  for  his  recollections  of 
Washington,  he  said :  "  Bless  you,  I  have  little  to 
tell.  I  was  so  very  young  at  the  time  when  I  knew 
him,  that  I  have  only  childish  recollections,  mere 
trifles,  which  will  scarcely  interest  you."  On  my 
assuring  him  that  these  were  just  the  things  I 
wanted  to  hear,  he  talked  modestly,  in  response 
to  much  questioning,  of  the  old  days  of  Philadel- 
phia, and  of  the  great  President  and  his  household. 

In  his  childhood,  he  said,  the  place  where  we  then 
were,  on  Tenth  Street  near  Arch,  with  the  roar  of 
the  great  city  about  us,  was  quite  in  the  rural  dis- 
tricts. He  remembered  going  to  bathe  hi  a  little 
pond,  near  the  corner  of  Sixth  and  Arch  streets,  a 
secluded  and  shaded  spot.  High  Street,  the  fashion- 
able avenue,  was  only  paved  as  far  up  as  Ninth,  but 
it  was  planted  with  rows  of  the  Lombardy  poplar 
nearly  out  to  the  Schuylkill,  and  was  the  favorite 
Sunday  promenade  of  the  citizens. 


IN  CAMP,  SALON  AND  STABLE.  13 

"Washington's  house,"  said  Mr.  Gray,  "was 
thought  a  very  fine  mansion.  It  was  what  was 
called  '  a  house  and  a  half ' — that  is,  the  hall  was 
not  in  the  middle,  but  had  two  windows  at  the 
right,  and  one  window  at  the  left.  It  was  two 
stories  and  a  half  high,  with  dormer  windows.  It 
was  rented  for  the  President  of  Robert  Morris,  but 
originally  belonged  to  Galloway,  the  Tory." 

"  Was  Washington  the  stately  and  formal  per- 
sonage he  has  been  represented  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  was  a  very  dignified  gentleman,  with 
the  most  elegant  manners — very  nice  in  his  dress, 
careful  and  punctual.  I  suppose  he  would  be 
thought  a  little  stiff  nowadays." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  him  laugh  heartily?" 

"  Why  no,  I  think  I  never  did." 

"  Was  he  always  grave,  as  you  remember  him,  or 
did  he  smile  now  and  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  bless  you,  yes,  he  always  smiled  on  chil- 
dren !  lie  was  particularly  popular  with  small 
boys.  When  he  went  in  state  to  Independence 
Hall,  in  his  cream-colored  chariot,  drawn  by  six 
bays,  and  with  postilions  and  out-riders,  and  when 
he  set  out  for  and  returned  from  Mount  Vernon,  we 
boys  were  on  hand ;  he  could  always  count  us  in, 
to  huzza  and  wave  our  hats  for  him,  and  he  used  to 


14  WASHINGTON  AS  HE  WAS, 

touch  his  hat  to  us  as  politely  as  though  we  had 
been  so  many  veteran  soldiers  on  parade." 

"  Were  you  ever  in  his  house,  as  a  child  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  after  his  great  dinners  he  used  to  tell 
the  steward  to  let  in  the  little  fellows,  and  we,  the 
boys  of  the  immediate  neighborhood,  who  were 
never  far  off  on  such  occasions,  crowded  about  the 
table  and  made  quick  work  with  the  remaining 
cakes,  nuts,  and  raisins. 

"  "Washington  had  a  habit  of  pacing  up  and  down 
the  large  front  room  on  the  first  floor,  in  the  early 
twilight,  with  his  hands  behind  him ;  and  one  even- 
ing a  little  boy,  who  had  never  seen  him,  in  attempt- 
ing to  climb  up  to  an  open  window  to  look  in  upon 
him,  fell  and  hurt  himself.  Washington  heard  him 
cry,  rung  for  a  servant,  and  sent  him  to  inquire 
about  the  accident — for,  after  all,  he  was  very  soft- 
hearted, at  least  toward  children.  The  servant 
came  back  and  said :  « The  boy  was  trying  to  get  a 
look  at  you,  sir.'  *  Bring  him  in,'  said  the  General, 
and,  when  the  boy  came  in,  he  patted  him  on  the 
head  and  said :  '  You  wanted  to  see  General 
Washington,  did  you?  Well,  I  am  General  Wash- 
ington.' But  the  little  fellow  shook  his  head  and 
said :  *  No,  you  are  only  just  a  man,  I  want  to  see 
the  President.' 

"They  say  Washington  laughed,  and  told  the 


IN  CAMP,  SALON  AND  STABLE.  15 

boy  that  he  was  the  President,  and  a  man  for  all 
that.  Then  he  had  the  servant  give  the  little  fellow 
some  nuts  and  cakes  and  dismissed  him." 

I  asked  Mr.  Gray  if  he  remembered  the  Custis 
children. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  « I  often  saw  them  at  the  win- 
dows, or  driving  out  with  Mrs.  Washington  in  her 
English  coach." 

They  did  not  seem  to  have  left  a  very  vivid  and 
human  impression  on  his  memory.  With  their  fine 
clothes  and  company  manners,  with  their  attend- 
ants, tutors,  dancing  and  music  masters,  they 
must  have  seemed  very  strange,  inaccessible,  and 
unenviable  little  personages  to  all  the  happy,  free- 
and-easy  children  of  the  neighborhood. 

"  Do  you  remember  Washington's  levies  and  Mrs. 
Washington's  drawing-rooms  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  remember  hearing  about  them.  All  the 
evening  parties  were  over  by  nine  o'clock,  and  the 
President's  house  was  dark  and  silent  by  ten.  They 
were  great  affairs,  but  I  was  too  young  to  know 
much  about  them.  I  attended  his  horse-levees.  I 
was  very  fond  of  visiting  his  stables,  early  in  the 
morning,  at  the  hour  when  he  always  went  to  in- 
spect them.  I  liked  to  see  him  at  that  work,  for  he 
seemed  to  enjoy  it  himself.  Like  General  Grant,  he 
was  a  great  lover  of  horses.  I  can  almost  think  I 


16  WASHINGTON  AS  HE  WAS, 

see  him  now,  come  striding  out  from  his  house  across 
the  yard  to  the  stables,  booted  and  spurred,  but 
bareheaded  and  in  his  shirt-sleeves." 

"  Washington  in  his  shirt-sleeves !  " 

"  Yes,  madam  ;  but  he  was  always  Washington. 
The  grooms  stood  aside,  silent  and  respectful,  while 
he  examined  every  stall  and  manger,  and  regularly 
went  over  every  horse — I  mean,  he  passed  over  a 
portion  of  its  coat  his  large  white  hand,  always 
looking  to  see  if  it  was  soiled,  or  if  any  loose  hairs 
had  come  off  on  it.  If  so,  the  groom  was  rep- 
rimanded and  ordered  to  do  his  work  over.  Gen- 
erally, however,  Washington  would  say  :  *  Very 
well.  Now,  John,  get  out  Prescott  and  Jackson ' 
(his  white  chargers).  '  I'll  be  ready  by  the  time  you 
come  round.' " 

"  Did  he  ride  at  so  early  an  hour  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  generally  between  five  and  six  of  a  pleas- 
ant morning  he  was  off ;  and  he  almost  always  rode 
up  to  Point-no-Point,  on  the  Delaware,  a  little  way 
above  Richmond.  He  was  a  fine  horseman,  and, 
being  a  long-bodied  man,  looked  grandly  on  horse- 
back. It  was  a  sight  worth  getting  up  early  to  see." 

Here  came  a  pause,  and  then  I  propounded  the 
momentous  old  question  : 

"  Did  Washington  ever  swear  ?  " 

"  Well,  as  for  that,  I  cannot  speak  from  my  own 


IN  CAMP,  SALON  AND  STABLE.  17 

observation.  Washington  had  great  self-control — 
he  was  a  moral  man — a  religious  man,  for  those 
times,  and  did  not  swear  upon  small  occasions,  and 
I  should  say,  never  before  children  ;  but,  from  what 
I  have  heard  my  father  and  old  soldiers  say,  I  think 
he  must  have  blazed  away  considerably  in  times  of 
great  excitement.  He  was  very  tender  of  his  favorite 
horses,  and  I  remember  to  have  heard  how  a  young 
aide  or  secretary  asked  leave  to  ride  one  of  his  white 
chargers  on  the  way  to  Mount  Vernon  ;  how  the 
General  allowed  him  to,  but  cautioned  him  not  to 
rein  up  the  horse  too  tightly ;  and  that  after  a  while 
Washington  saw  he  was  worrying  the  animal,  and 
cautioned  him  again  ;  but  the  fellow  kept  on  pulling 
and  jerking  at  the  bit,  until  the  creature  became 
almost  unmanageable.  Then  Washington  broke 
upon  him,  like  a  whole  battery,  ordered  him  to  dis- 
mount, and  swore  tremendously.  I  remember,  too, 
that  I  once  heard  an  army-officer  tell  about  his 
cursing  some  general  who  disobeyed  him  in  battle." 

"  Lee,  at  Monmouth." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so.  Anyhow,  my  informant  said 
it  was  the  greatest  sort  of  swearing,  yet  wasn't  so 
awful  as  Washington's  face  at  the  time.  He  said, 
I  remember,  '  I  never  saw  the  devil  before.' 

"  These  things  were  told  of  him,  but  not  told 
against  him.  It  was  the  fashion  of  those  times, 


18  WASHINGTON  AS  HE  WAS, 

and  you  know  there's  swearing,  and  swearing." 
At  this  point,  I  ventured  to  relate  a  little  story, 
recently  told  me  by  a  descendant  of  General  Greene 
of  Rhode  Island,  from  whom  came  the  original 
anecdote,  which  was  this : — 

During  that  terribly  trying  winter  at  Valley 
Forge,  Washington,  in  the  worst  weather,  went 
frequently  about  the  miserable  camp  by  himself,  to 
see  how  his  poor  soldiers  were  faring,  and  happened 
late,  one  bitterly  cold  afternoon,  to  come  upon  "  an 
awkward  squad,"  engaged  in  building  a  log-hut, 
under  the  angry  derisive  direction  of  an  insolent 
young  lieutenant,  lately  arrived  at  winter  quarters. 
After  listening  for  a  few  moments  the  General, 
shocked  at  such  brutality,  called  out  authoritatively, 
yet  quietly :  "  Don't  abuse  your  men,  lieutenant ! 
Can't  you  see  that  they  are  half  frozen  ?  " 

Failing  to  recognize  his  great  superior  officer  in 
the  tall  figure,  wrapped  in  a  long  military  cloak, 
and  standing  under  a  dark  pine,  in  the  snowy 
twilight,  the  young  subaltern  shouted  back — "  Mind 
your  damned  business  !  Who  are  you  anyhow?" 
Then  the  tall  figure  under  the  pine  grew  yet  taller, 
and  like  a  thunder-burst  came  the  answer :  "  I  am 
General  George  Washington,  Commander-in-Chief  of 
the  Continental  armies,  by  God  !  and  I  order  you 
under  arrest." 


IN  CAMP,  SALON  AND  STABLE.  19 

Mr.  Gray  laughed  and  rubbed  his  hands  over  this 
grand  outburst  of  profanity  and  humanity,  saying : 
"  That's  a  story  I  could  swear  to,  though  I  never 
heard  it  before." 

I  questioned  Mr.  Gray  in  regard  to  Washington's 
dignity  of  manner.  "  Was  it,"  I  asked,  "  of  such  a 
lofty  and  awe-inspiring  quality  as  has  been  repre- 
sented ?  Did  it  impose  on  small  boys  and  foreign 
ambassadors  alike  ?  " 

"  Why,  as  for  that,  madam,"  he  replied,  "  I  can 
safely  say  that  I  have  seen  nothing  like  it  in  these 
later  times.  It  has  gone  out  of  fashion,  even  with 
presidents  ! " 

Again  I  was  .skeptical  and  irreverent  enough  to 
ask :  "  How  much  of  it  was  in  the  man,  George 
Washington,  and  how  much  in  the  station  and  in 
the  clothes  ?  The  costume  of  gentlemen  of  that  day 
was,  you  remember,  elaborate  and  imposing.  A 
man  in  the  Continental  uniform  of  a  Major-General, 
or  in  a  full-dress  suit  of  black  or  purple  velvet, 
with  rich  lace  ruffles,  with  a  sword  at  his  side,  with 
his  hair  tightly  queued  and  thoroughly  powdered, 
was  somehow  compelled  to  be  dignified." 

"  Perhaps  so ;  still,  Washington  was  impressive 
even  for  that  time,  and  its  costume.  I  remember 
hearing,  when  I  was  a  child,  with  something  like 
horror,  a  story  of  a  young  Englishman  of  rank — a 


20  WASHINGTON  AS  HE  WAS, 

traveller  in  this  country,  who  laid  a  wager  with  an 
American  officer  that  he  would  dare  to  accost 
Washington  with  familiarity,  at  one  of  his  own  re- 
ceptions. Accordingly,  at  the  next  levee,  he  just 
walked  boldly  up  to  the  President,  and  laying  his 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  he  says :  '  How  are  you, 
General  ?  What's  new  ? ' 

"  They  said  Washington  never  uttered  one  word 
in  reply,  nor  even  made  a  movement  of  surprise ; 
but  he  turned  slowly  and  looked  at  the  offender,  who 
afterward  said,  '  He  almost  looked  me  through  the 
floor ; '  then  he  crossed  to  the  other  side  of  the  room. 
I  don't  think  the  young  man  ever  cared  to  repeat 
his  little  experiment." 

This  anecdote  has  been  told  of  Gouverneur  Morris, 
but  Mr.  Gray  seemed  quite  positive  that  the  rash 
individual  who  thus  playfully  laid  his  hand  on  the 
mane  of  the  Lion  of  the  Republic,  was  a  sort  of 
representative  of  the  British  Lion — a  sprig  of  the 
nobility — one  who  had  looked  on  the  face  of  great 
George  the  Third,  and  perhaps  knew  by  sight  that 
other  George,  most  profligate  of  princes  in  morals 
and  prodigal  in  waistcoats. 

Mr.  Gray  continued :  "  Commonly,  General  Wash- 
ington walked  out  in  the  morning  without  any 
attendants.  He  used  to  go  from  his  house  down 
High  Street  to  Second  Street,  on  which  he  often 


IN  CAMP,  SALON  AND  STABLE.  21 

stopped  for  a  few  moments,  at  his  watchmaker's, 
to  compare  his  time  with  that  in  the  shop.  Some- 
times, he  set  his  watch  by  the  clock  in  the  old  State 
House.  He  walked  down  Second  to  Chestnut,  and 
up  Chestnut  to  the  corner  of  Fifth,  where  he  would 
stop  for  a  half  hour  or  so  at  the  War  Office.  From 
thence,  he  walked  up  to  Sixth  Street,  and  then 
home.  He  was  so  regular  and  punctual,  that  people 
knew  just  when  and  where  to  meet  him  on  his 
walks.  Everybody  knew  him,  and  everybody  made 
way  for  him  most  respectfully — the  men,  unless 
Quakers,  removing  their  hats,  and  the  women  bow- 
ing or  courtesying.  Washington  always  acknowl- 
edged such  marks  of  respect,  even  from  the  poorest 
and  humblest,  in  his  own  grand  way." 

Mr.  Gray  spoke  highly  of  Timothy  Pickering, 
Washington's  Secretary  of  War,  saying  "  he  was 
an  eminently  honest  man,  and  a  prodigious  worker." 
He  illustrated  this  Secretary's  tireless  industry  and 
rigid  system  by  a  singular  account  given  him  by  a 
family  friend  or  relative,  named,  I  believe,  White, 
who  for  some  years  was  employed  in  the  War 
Office. 

"  Mr.  White,"  he  said,  "  heard  that  Pickering 
wanted  a  clerk,  and  he  applied  for  the  position, 
early  one  morning,  with  a  letter  of  recommendation. 
Mr.  Pickering  said  little,  but  gave  him  a  paper  to 


22  WASHINGTON  AS  HE  WAS, 

copy.  He  was  pleased  with  White's  handwriting 
and  the  dispatch  he  had  used,  and  set  him  to  work 
at  once.  They  wrote  there  in  almost  total  silence 
till  noon.  Then  Mr.  Pickering  said:  'Now,  Mr. 
White,  we  take  an  hour  for  dinner.  Be  here 
promptly  at  one,  if  you  please.'  From  one  to  six 
they  worked,  then  Mr.  Pickering  says :  '  Now,  Mr. 
White,  we  go  to  tea.  I  shall  expect  to  meet  you 
here  at  seven  precisely,  to  work  till  nine.'  At  nine 
the  poor  clerk  was  dismissed  for  the  night,  but  was 
told  to  report  for  duty  at  seven  in  the  morning, 
which  he  did. 

"  This  day  was  a  sample  of  most  of  the  days  in 
that  office,  and  the  work  of  both  the  Secretary  and 
his  man  was  performed  standing,  at  high  desks. 
There  was  but  one  chair  in  the  room,  and  that  was 
sacredly  set  apart  for  the  President.  Nobody  ever 
sat  in  it  but  General  Washington.  He  would  come 
in  at  the  same  hour,  to  a  minute,  every  day,  for  a 
certain  length  of  time,  and  always  say,  '  Good-morn- 
ing, Colonel  Pickering ! '  in  the  same  measured  tone. 
Then  he  would  lay  his  hat,  gloves,  and  gold-headed 
cane  on  the  table,  and  sit  down  in  the  big  arm-chair. 
Then  the  Secretary  would  hand  him  papers  to  be 
examined  and  signed,  or  stand  before  him  to  receive 
his  orders,  saying  little  himself.  After  business 
was  over,  Washington  never  stayed  to  chat  about 


IN  CAMP,  SALON  AND  STABLE.  23 

lighter  matters,  not  even  to  '  talk  horse ; '  but  took  up 
his  hat,  gloves,  and  cane,  and  with  another  stately 
'  Good-morning,  Colonel  Pickering,'  went  out,  and 
left  the  Secretary  and  his  man  to  their  work." 

"  Pray  tell  me  what  salary  your  friend,  Mr. 
"White,  received." 

"  Three  or  four  hundred  dollars  a  year.  The 
Secretary  himself  had  fifteen  hundred." 

What  chief  clerk  of  any  department  of  Govern- 
ment, however  well  paid,  feels  called  upon  nowa- 
days, to  labor  like  this  old-time  official  ? 

I  asked  Mr.  Gray  what  he  thought  of  Robert 
Morris. 

"  I  think  what  "Washington  thought  of  him,"  he 
said — "  that  his  talent  for  financiering  and  his 
patriotic  devotion  did  very  much  toward  saving  the 
nation. 

"  My  father  was  "Washington's  confidential  courier, 
and  I  have  often  heard  him  tell  of  a  call  made  by 
the  Commander-in-Chief  on  Mr.  Morris  at  a  very 
critical  time,  and  how  nobly  it  was  responded  to. 

"The  army  was  encamped  near  Trenton,  and 
was  nearly  out  of  supplies,  and  quite  out  of  money. 

"One  morning  my  father  was  summoned  to 
Washington's  tent,  and  the  General  said  to  him : 
4  Gray,  in  how  short  a  time  could  you  ride  down  to 
Philadelphia  ?  I  want  you  to  take  a  letter  to  Mr. 


24  WASHINGTON  AS  HE  WAS, 

Robert  Morris,  and  there  is  the  utmost  need  for 
dispatch.' 

"  My  father  named  the  shortest  time  possible  for 
making  the  journey  with  a  fleet  horse. 

"  '  Then  just  take  the  best  horse  in  the  army,  and 
set  off  at  once  with  this  letter,'  said  Washington. 

" '  Well,  General,'  said  my  father,  '  the  best  horse 
I  know  of  in  the  army  is  your  chestnut  sorrel.' 

"  He  did  not  expect  that  Washington  would  allow 
him  to  take  that  horse,  for  it  was  his  favorite,  but 
he  said  at  once  :  'Take  him.'  And  my  father  rode 
him  to  Philadelphia,  and  made  good  time  with  him. 

"  When  Robert  Morris  read  the  letter,  he  asked  : 
« How  soon  can  you  start  for  Trenton  with  my  reply 
to  General  Washington,  Mr.  Gray?' 

" '  As  soon,  sir,  as  I  can  get  a  fresh  horse,'  said 
my  father.  'It  won't  do  to  ride  back  General 
Washington's  chestnut  sorrel.' 

" '  Of  course  not,'  said  Mr.  Morris.  '  Go  to  my 
stable,  and  take  the  best  horse  you  can  find.  I  am 
in  haste  to  assure  General  Washington  that  I  will 
do  all  I  can  to  meet  his  wishes.'  " 

What  example,  I  ask,  of  Roman  patriotism,  can 
surpass  that  of  these  two  modern  heroes  and  horse 
lovers  ? 

Mr.  Gray  continued : 

"  My  father  got  safely  back  to  headquarters  with 


IN  CAMP,  SALON  AND  STABLE.  25 

the  reply  of  Mr.  Morris.  He  said  Washington's  face 
lighted  up  when  he  read  it ;  but  he  must  have  known 
pretty  much  what  it  would  be,  for  he  had  every 
thing  ready  for  marching,  and  in  five  minutes  the 
drums  beat  and  the  bugle  sounded,  and  the  whole 
army  was  in  motion.  You  see,  he  had  written  to 
Morris  to  supply  money  and  provisions,  and  Morris 
had  consented,  and  set  to  work  with  all  his  energy. 
The  morning  after  my  father's  hurried  visit  to  Phil- 
adelphia, my  mother  returned  from  market,  at  about 
six  o'clock,  saying :  « It's  well  I  went  so  early !  If  I 
had  been  a  half-hour  later,  I  should  not  have  been 
able  to  get  a  pound  of  beef  or  bacon.  Robert  Morris 
is  sending  his  men  all  about  to  buy  up  provisions 
for  the  army.' 

"  When,  a  few  months  later,  she  was  one  night 
roused  from  her  sleep  by  the  old  watchman  crying 
under  her  window,  '  Past  twelve  o'clock,  and  Lord 
Cornwallis  is  taken ! '  she  knew,  and  all  our  people 
knew,  that  Robert  Morris  had  had  a  great  deal  to 
do  in  bringing  about  that  surrender,  which  virtually 
ended  the  war.  He  had  been  the  right  hand  of 
Washington.  Yet,  while  Washington  was  Presi- 
dent, Robert  Morris  was  confined  in  the  old  debtor's 
prison  in  Philadelphia." 

"  What  a  shame ! "  one  of  us  hotly  exclaimed. 
"  Why  did  not  Congress  pay  his  debts,  and  liberate 


26  WASHINGTON  AS  HE  WAS, 

one  to  whom  the  nation  ^owed    so  great  a  debt?" 

"Well,  that  was  not  thought  practicable.  His 
liabilities  were  immense,  and  the  precedent  would 
have  been,  perhaps,  a  little  dangerous.  He  was  a 
rash  manager  of  his  own  affairs.  He  bore  his  mis- 
fortunes bravely,  they  said ;  but  I  think  he  used  to 
look  very  sad  as  he  walked  up  and  down  the  narrow 
prison-yard.  Sometimes,  I  remember,  he  seemed 
to  be  listening,  in  a  pleased  sort  of  way,  to  old  Billy 
Wood,  the  play-actor,  who  was  also  in  difficulties. 
Wood  was  an  educated  man,  and  good  company." 

I  questioned  our  friend  as  to  his  impressions  of 
Lafayette,  Jefferson,  Hamilton,  and  Burr.  But  he 
had  only  seen  them  casually,  and  had  very  faint 
recollections  of  them.  Aaron  Burr  he  remembered 
as  "  a  little,  alert  man,  with  very  bright,  dark  eyes." 

O  those  wonderful  Edwards  eyes,  full  of  power, 
and  fate,  and  predestination! — those  keen,  eager, 
passionate  eyes — they  seem  to  beam  on  unquench- 
ably  in  the  memory  of  all  on  whom  their  glance  ever 
fell,  even  carelessly  and  for  a  moment ! 

When  Wendell  Phillips  was  a  child,  Aaron  Burr 
was  pointed  out  to  him,  on  Broadway,  I  think.  He 
did  not  then  know  much  of  the  life  and  the  genius, 
the  sin  and  the  sorrow  of  that  famous  and  infamous 
old  man,  but  he  felt  and  never  forgot  the  power  of 
his  eyes.  I  once  asked  a  venerable  relative  who  in 


IN  CAMP,  SALON  AND  STABLE.  27 

his  youth  met  Aaron  Burr,  what  he  remembered  of 
him. 

"  Not  very  much,"  he  replied ;  "  he  was  a  small 
man,  very  quick  in  his  movements,  and  with  remark- 
able eyes." 

Mr.  Gray  also,  I  think,  described  Jefferson  as 
small,  or  as  looking  so,  in  comparison  with  Wash- 
ington, that  one  grand  and  lofty  figure,  that  evi- 
dently stood  apart  and  unapproachable  in  the  long 
gallery  of  his  memory.  He  beheld  that  figure  still 
through  the  beautifying  and  exalting  atmosphere, 
the  rosy  mist  of  childish  love  and  reverence — after 
all,  a  truer  medium,  doubtless,  than  the  cold  light 
of  latter-day  theories  of  his  life  and  character,  spec- 
ulative and  skeptical.  To  him  Washington  seemed 
both  nearer  and  farther  off  than  he  seems  to  us. 
Those  calm  blue  eyes,  dust  and  darkness  for  nearly 
seventy  years,  shone  for  the  old  man,  as  they  shone 
on  the  little  boy,  with  a  lofty  but  not  unkindly  look. 
Their  color  was  to  him  like  the  far  blue  of  summer 
skies — not  like  the  cold  blue  of  Alpine  glaciers. 

The  more  than  royal  dignity  of  that  martial  and 
paternal  presence  was  to  him  simply  and  grandly 
heroic.  The  pure  morality  and  honest  Christian 
faith  of  the  leader  and  savior  of  the  nation  ;  of  the 
representative  gentleman,  with  his  careful  punctu- 
ality and  unerring  propriety,  his  generous  hospital- 


28  WASHINGTON  AS  HE  WAS, 

ities  and  exact  economies ;  of  the  kind  neighbor  and 
just  master ;  of  the  lover  of  children,  dogs  and  horses, 
were  to  him  better  than  all  the  philanthropy  and 
much  of  the  religion  of  our  time. 

"While  this  friend  talked  with  us,  I,  for  one,  felt 
that  I  had  taken  a  dip  into  the  golden  past.  I  half 
fancied  that  I  too  had  seen  Washington,  and  had  my 
little  head  thatched  for  a  moment  by  his  broad  white 
hand ;  that  I  had  eaten  sweetmeats  from  that  boun- 
teous table  in  the  old  High  Street  house ;  or,  better 
still,  met  Washington  in  his  stable,  among  his 
horses. 

But  all  such  pleasant  illusions  were  dispelled  by 
our  visitor  glancing  at  the  clock  on  the  mantel,  and 
exclaiming :  "  Bless  me,  it  is  nearly  eleven !  I  must 
be  going." 

Then  he  shook  hands  all  round,  and  with  kindly 
adieux  and  graceful  compliments,  left  us,  reverently 
thankful  for  the  golden  gossip  of  the  charming  old 
man  whose  silver-crowned  head,  sunny  in  the  light 
of  long  ago,  had  been  patted  by  the  hand  of  the 
Pater  Patrice. 

Ah !  what  a  troop  of  old-time  shades  went  out 
after  him  into  the  summer  night !  Washington, 
stately  as  ever,  but  more  human  and  home-like  than 
he  had  before  seemed  to  me.  About  him  was  a 
faint,  agreeable  equine  odor,  and  the  shadow  of  a 


IN  CAMP,  SALON  AND  STABLE.  29 

stag-hound  trotted  after  him.  Beside  him  walked 
his  comely,  comfortable  wife ;  and  just  following 
went  pretty,  prim  Nelly  Custis,  and  that  young  prig, 
Master  George  Washington  Parke  Custis. 

We  might  have  pictured,  as  waiting  for  this  august 
party,  in  the  dim  starlight,  just  outside  General 
Tyndal's  hospitable  door,  the  old  cream-colored 
chariot,  drawn  by  six  spectral  bays,  with  a  ghostly 
John  on  the  box,  the  lively  apparition  of  a  footman 
beside  the  steps,  and  a  smart  spook  of  a  postilion 
mounted  in  front.  These  all  vanished  without  sound 
of  rumble  or  gallop,  with  silent  cracks  of  impalpable 
whips,  and  inaudible  huzzas  from  the  little  boys  of 
long  ago. 

Robert  Morris  passed  out  with  head  bowed,  and 
after  him,  with  something  of  a  stage-stride,  "  Billy 
Wood,  the  play-actor."  Then  went  Thomas  Jeffer- 
son, with  his  cold,  unbelieving  face,  and  Timothy 
Pickering  hurrying  back  to  the  War-Office,  and 
Alexander  Hamilton,  with  his  grave,  statesmanlike 
mien,  and  Aaron  Burr,  with  his  quick,  nervous  step, 
and  his  magnetic,  masterful  eyes. 

And  so  closed  our  evening  with  the  past. 


WORTHY  TO  COME  NEXT. 


A     TRUE       STORY     OF      PRESIDENT      LI  NC  O  L  N. 


DURING  the  summer  of  the  most  disastrous  and 
doubtful  year  of  the  late  war,  the  colonel  of  a 
New  Hampshire  regiment  lay  for  some  weeks  ex- 
tremely ill  of  camp  fever,  near  Hampton  Roads,  in 
Virginia.  Hearing  of  his  critical  condition,  his  wife 
left  her  northern  home,  and,  after  much  difficulty, 
made  her  way  to  his  bedside.  Her  cheerful  pres- 
ence and  careful  nursing  so  far  restored  him,  that 
he  was  in  a  short  time  able  to  be  transferred  to 
Washington. 

In  the  Potomac  River,  the  steamer  in  which  the 
invalid  officer,  Colonel  Scott,  and  his  wife  had  taken 
passage,  was  sunk,  in  a  collision  with  a  larger  ves- 
sel, in  the  night-time.  The  crew  and  nearly  all  the 
soldiers  on  board  were  rescued,  or  saved  themselves  ; 
but  amid  the  horrible  confusion  of  the  scene,  Col- 
onel Scott  became  separated  from  his  wife,  and  she 
was  lost.  The  Colonel  was  picked  up  in  the  water 


WORTHY  TO  COME  NEXT.  31 

by  the  crew  of  the  larger  steamer,  and  under  his 
direction  every  effort  was  made  to  discover  his 
wife,  or  rather  her  body,  for  all  hope  of  finding  her 
alive  was  soon  abandoned.  The  sad  search  was 
fruitless  ;  it  was  resumed  in  the  morning,  the  peo- 
ple along  the  shore,  humane  Confederates,  lending 
their  aid.  But  the  gray,  sullen  river  refused  to 
give  up  its  dead,  and  the  young  officer,  half  frantic 
with  grief,  was  compelled  to  go  on  to  Washington. 
Within  a  week,  however,  he  received  word  from  be- 
low that  the  body  of  the  lady  had  been  washed  on 
shore — that  those  good  country  people,  generous 
foes,  had  secured  it,  cared  for  it,  and  were  keeping 
it  for  him. 

It  happened  that  just  at  that  time  imperative  or- 
ders were  issued  from  the  War  Department,  prohib- 
iting all  intercourse  with  the  Peninsula — a  neces- 
sary precaution  against  the  premature  disclosure  of 
important  military  plans.  So  it  was  with  some  mis- 
givings that  Colonel  Scott  applied  to  Mr.  Secretary 
Stanton  for  leave  to  return  to  Virginia,  on  his  mel- 
ancholy duty. 

"  Impossible,  Colonel,"  replied  Mr.  Stanton, 
firmly;  "no  one  can  have  leave  to  go  down  the 
river,  at  this  time,  on  any  private  mission  whatever. 
Our  present  exigencies  demand  the  most  stringent 
regulations  ;  and  I  hope  I  need  not  say  to  you  that 


32  WORTHY  TO  COME  NEXT. 

no  merely  personal  considerations  should  be  allowed 
to  interfere  with  great  national  interests.  Your 
case  is  a  sad  one ;  but  this  is  a  critical,  perilous, 
cruel  time.  '  The  dead  must  bury  the  dead.'  " 

The  Colonel  would  have  entreated,  but  the  busy 
Secretary  cut  him  short  with  another  "  impossible," 
from  which  there  was  absolutely  no  appeal.  He 
went  forth  from  the  presence,  and  returned  to  his 
hotel,  quite  overwhelmed. 

Fortunately,  he  was  that  afternoon  visited  by  a 
friend,  to  whom  he  told  the  story  of  his  unsuccess- 
ful application  and  sad  perplexity,  and  who  immedi- 
ately exclaimed,  "  Why  not  apply  to  the  President  ?  " 

The  Colonel  had  but  little  hope,  but  acknowledg- 
ing that  the  plan  was  worth  trying,  drove  with  his 
friend  to  the  White  House. 

They  were  too  late.  It  was  Saturday  evening, 
and  Mr.  Lincoln  had  gone  to  spend  Sunday  at  Sol- 
dier's Rest,  his  summer  retreat.  This  was  but  a  few 
miles  from  town,  and  the  Colonel's  indomitable 
friend  proposed  that  they  should  follow  him  out, 
and  they  went. 

There  was  then  a  popular  belief  that  all  the 
wronged,  the  troubled,  and  suffering  could  find  a 
refuge  in  "  Father  Abraham's  "  capacious  bosom  ;  a 
belief  that  was  not  far  out  of  the  way.  Yet  there 
were  times  when  overburdened,  wearied,  tortured, 


WORTHY  TO  COME  NEXT.  33 

the  patriarch  longed  to  clear  that  asylum  of  its 
forlorn  inmates,  to  bolt  and  bar  and  double-lock  it 
against  the  world  ;  times  when  life  became  too  hard 
and  perplexing  for  his  genial,  honest  nature,  too 
serious  and  tragic  and  rascally  a  thing  by  half. 

It  happened,  unluckily,  that  the  poor  Colonel  and 
his  friend  found  the  President  in  one  of  his  most 
despondent  and  disgusted  moods.  He  was  in  his 
little  private  parlor,  alone  in  the  gloaming.  He  was 
lounging  loosely  in  a  large  rocking-chair,  jutting 
over  it  in  all  directions.  His  slippered  feet  were 
exalted,  his  rough  head  was  thrown  back,  his  long 
throat  bare — he  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves  !  Yes,  dear, 
fastidious  reader,  it  was  genuine  Yankee  abandon, 
— make  the  most  of  it ! 

He  turned  upon  his  visitors  a  look  of  almost  sav- 
age inquiry.  There  was,indeed,  in  his  usually  pleas- 
ant eyes,  a  wild,  angry  gleam  ;  a  something  like  the 
glare  of  a  worried  animal  at  bay. 

Colonel  Scott  proceeded  very  modestly  to  tell  his 
story;  but  the  President  interrupted  him  to  say 
brusquely,  "  Go  to  Stanton ;  this  is  his  business." 

"  I  have  been  to  him,  Mr.  President,  and  he  will 
do  nothing  for  me." 

"  You  have  been  to  him,  and  got  your  answer, 
and  still  presume  to  come  to  me  ?  Am  I  to  have 
no  rest  ?  no  privacy  ?  Must  I  be  dogged  to  my 
3 


34  WORTHY  TO  COME  NEXT. 

last  fastnesses  and  worried  to  death  by  inches? 
Mr.  Stanton  has  done  just  right.  lie  knows  what 
he  is  about.  Your  demands  are  unreasonable,  sir." 

"  But,  Mr.  Lincoln,  I  thought  you  would  feel  for 
me." 

"  Feel  for  you!  Good  God  !  I  have  to  feel  for 
five  hundred  thousand  more  unfortunate  than  you. 
We  are  at  war,  sir  :  don't  you  know  we  are  at  war? 
Sorrow  is  the  lot  of  all ;  bear  your  share  like  a  man 
and  a  soldier." 

"  I  try  to,  Mr.  President,  but  it  seems  hard.  My 
devoted  wife  lost  her  life  for  coming  to  nurse  me 
in  my  sickness,  and  I  cannot  even  take  her  body 
home  to  my  children." 

"  Well,  she  ought  not  to  have  come  down  to  the 
army.  She  should  have  stayed  at  home.  That  is 
the  place  for  women.  But  if  they  will  go  tearing 
about  the  country,  in  such  times  as  these,  and  run- 
ning into  all  sorts  of  danger,  they  must  take  the 
consequences !  Not  but  that  I  am  sorry  for  you, 
Colonel.  As  for  your  wife,  she's  at  rest,  and  I  wish 
I  were." 

Saying  this,  the  President  leaned  back  wearily  in 
his  chair,  and  closed  his  eyes,  not  noticing,  except 
by  a  slight  wave  of  his  hand,  the  departure  of  his 
visitors. 

I  am  not  ashamed  to  confess  that  my  hero  tossed 


WORTHY  TO  COME  NEXT.  35 

restlessly  that  night,  upon  a  pillow  wet  with 
manly  tears,  that  he  was  desperate  and  resentful, 
utterly  unresigned  to  the  decrees  of  Providence  and 
the  War  Department,  and  that  he  thought  Abraham 
Lincoln  as  hard  as  he  was  ugly,  and  as  inhumane 
as  he  was  ungainly. 

Toward  morning  he  fell  asleep,  and  slept  late. 
Before  he  was  fully  dressed,  there  came  a  quick 
knock  at  the  door  of  his  chamber,  and  he  opened  to 
President  Lincoln ! 

The  good  man  came  forward,  pale  and  eager, 
tears  glistening  in  his  eyes,  and  grasped  the  Colo- 
nel's hand,  saying,  "  I  treated  you  brutally  last  night. 
I  ask  your  pardon.  I  was  utterly  tired  out,  bad- 
gered to  death.  I  generally  become  about  as  savage 
as  a  wild  cat  by  Saturday  night,  drained  dry  of  the 
milk  of  human  kindness.  I  must  have  seemed  to 
you  the  very  gorilla  the  rebels  paint  me.  I  was 
sorry  enough  for  it,  when  you  were  gone.  I  could 
not  sleep  a  moment  last  night,  so  I  thought  I'd  drive 
into  town,  in  the  cool  of  the  morning,  and  make  it 
all  right.  Fortunately,  I  had  little  difficulty  in 
finding  you." 

"This  is  very  good  of  you,  Mr.  President,"  said 
the  Colonel,  deeply  moved. 

"No, it  isn't ;  but  that  was  very  bad  of  me,  last 
night.  I  never  should  have  forgiven  myself,  if  I 


36  WORTHY  TO  COME  NEXT. 

had  let  that  piece  of  ugly  work  stand.  That  was  a 
noble  wife  of  yours,  Colonel !  You  were  a  happy 
man  to  have  such  a  noble  woman  to  love  you ;  and 
you  must  be  a  good  fellow,  or  such  a  woman  would 
never  have  risked  so  much  for  you.  And  what 
grand  women  there  are  in  these  times,  Colonel! 
What  angels  of  devotion  and  mercy,  and  how  brave 
and  plucky  ! — going  everywhere  at  the  call  of  duty, 
facing  every  danger !  I  tell  you,  if  it  were  not  for 
the  women,  we  should  all  go  to  the  devil,  and  should 
deserve  to.  They  are  the  salvation  of  the  nation. 
Now,  come,  Colonel;  my  carriage  is  at  the  door. 
I'll  drive  you  to  the  War  Department,  and  we'll  see 
Stanton  about  this  matter." 

Even  at  that  early  hour,  and  Sunday  morning 
though  it  was,  they  found  the  Secretary  at  his  post. 
The  President  pleaded  the  case  of  Colonel  Scott,  and 
not  only  requested  that  leave  of  absence  should  be 
given  him,  but  that  a  steamer  should  be  sent  down 
the  river  expressly  to  bring  up  the  body  of  his  wife. 
"  Humanity,  Mr.  Stanton,"  said  the  good  President, 
his  homely  face  transfigured  with  the  glow  of  earnest 
tender  feeling,  "  humanity  should  overrule  consider- 
ations of  policy,  and  even  military  necessity,  in  mat- 
ters like  this." 

The  Secretary  was  touched,  and  he  said  some- 
thing of  his  regret  at  not  having  felt  himself  at  lib- 


WORTHY  TO  COME  NEXT.  37 

erty  to  grant  Colonel  Scott's  request  in  the  first  place. 

"  Xo,  no,  Mr.  Stanton,"  said  the  President ;  "  you 
did  right  in  adhering  to  your  own  rules ;  you  are 
the  right  man  for  this  place.  If  we  had  such  a  soft- 
hearted fool  as  I  here,  there  would  be  no  rules  or 
regulations  that  the  army  or  country  could  depend 
upon.  But  this  is  a  peculiar  case.  Only  think  of 
that  poor  woman  !  " 

Of  course,  the  "  impossible  "  was  accomplished. 
To  the  surprise  of  the  Colonel,  the  President  insisted 
on  driving  him  to  the  Kavy-yard,  to  see  that  the 
Secretary's  order  was  carried  out  immediately  ; 
seeming  to  have  a  nervous  fear  that  some  obstacle 
might  be  thrown  in  the  way  of  the  pious  expedition. 
He  waited  at  the  landing  till  all  was  ready,  then 
charged  the  officers  of  the  steamer  to  give  every  as- 
sistance and  attention  to  his  "  friend,  Colonel  Scott." 
With  him  he  shook  hands  warmly  at  parting,  saying, 
"  God  bless  you,  my  dear  fellow,  I  hope  you  will 
have  no  more  trouble  in  this  sad  affair — and,  Colonel, 
try  to  forget  last  night." 

Away  up  in  a  New  Hampshire  church-yard  there 
is  a  certain  grave  still  carefully  watched  and  tended 
by  a  faithful  love.  But  every  April  time  the  violets 
on  that  mound  speak  not  alone  of  the  womanly  sweet- 
ness and  devotion  of  her  who  sleeps  below — they 
are  tender  and  tearful  with  the  memory  of  the  good 
President. 


THREE   GREAT   WOMEN. 

WRITTEN    IN    FLORENCE    IN   JANUARY,    1881. 


I  DO  not  think  that  anywhere  out  of  England  could 
we  have  been  so  saddened  by  the  death  of  George 
Eliot  as  here  in  Florence,  where  she  had  been  much 
in  our  thoughts,  because  her  great  Florentine  novel 
had  been  much  in  our  hands.  The  heavy  news  took 
all  the  gladness  out  of  the  Christmas  festa.  The 
bells  of  Florence,  whose  "  solemn  hammer  sound  " 
she  used  to  love,  seemed  to  be  tolling  for  the  "  large- 
brained  woman  and  great-hearted  man."  In  the 
morning  of  the  new  year  we  are  still  under  the 
shadow,  and  we  feel  that  it  will  not  lift  for  many 
a  day.  Indeed,  the  sense  of  loss  deepens  as  we 
realize  more  acutely  that  a  guiding  star  of  thought 
has  been  quenched  in  sudden  night ;  that  a  large, 
tender,  pitying,  brooding  soul  has  been  withdrawn 
from  us.  We  go  about  the  streets  of  the  dear  old 
city  tracing  out  the  scenes  of  "  Romola,"  always  read 
with  a  new  interest  here,  where  we  recognize  the 


THREE  GEE  AT  WOMEN.  39 

marvelous  accuracy  of  its  local  coloring,  where  even 
its  purely  imaginative  portion  seems  more  real  than 
history,  more  true  than  fact.  I  see  this  work  rather 
lightly  spoken  of  as  "  a  sketch  of  Savonarola  and  his 
times ; "  but  to  me  the  presentation  of  the  great 
Frate,  the  martyred  prophet  and  seer,  in  that  won- 
derful book,  is  infinitely  more  than  "  a  sketch."  It 
is  a  bold,  strong,  broad,  flesh-and-blood  portrait, 
such  as  Michael  Angelo  might  have  painted.  It  is 
this  Savonarola,  and  not  that  of  the  historians,  which 
we  half  look  to  see  in  his  cell  at  San  Marco,  in  the 
prison- chamber  of  the  Bargello,  in  the  Chapel  of 
the  Last  Sacrament  in  the  Palazzo  Vecchio.  But 
beyond  even  this  masterly  portrait,  beyond  the 
statuesque  figure  of  Romola — grand,  heroic,  sweet, 
solemn  Romola — the  noblest  woman  ever  created 
even  by  George  Eliot,  whose  soul  seemed  an  inex- 
haustible quarry  of  noble  womanhood,  was  that  con- 
summate work  of  art,  Tito  Melema.  Here  was  a 
marvelously  profound,  complex  psychological  study, 
yet  a  creation  warm  with  all  the  hues  of  life,  made 
possible  and  probable  by  all  the  attributes  of  a  dis- 
tinct and  consistent  human  personality.  What  a 
wondrous  fascination  there  is  about  that  beautiful, 
sensuous,  pleasure-loving,  ease-seeking  young  Greek ! 
Yet  what  a  feeling  you  have,  when  he  takes  his  first 
hesitating  steps  in  evil,  that  the  river  beside  him 


40  THREE  GREAT  WOMEN. 

can  as  easily  be  turned  back  on  its  course  as  he  on 
that  which  he  has  allowed  his  steps  to  slide  ink*. 
The  great  sea  calls  to  the  Arno.  Fate  lays  its  fiat 
on  the  soul  of  the  man.  It  is  this  grim  element  of 
the  fateful  which  enters  into  every  life-tragedy  in 
George  Eliot's  novels.  You  cannot  question  motive 
or  necessity.  You  feel  they  are  what  they  are  by  as 
certain  a  law  of  evolution,  by  as  stern  a  law  of  retri- 
bution as  directed  the  great  tragedies  of  ^Eschylus. 

When  I  was  in  Florence,  five  years  ago,  from  that 
sacred  house  opposite  the  Pitti,  marked  by  a  mar- 
ble tablet  which  tells  us  that  here  lived  and  died 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  I  went  in  search  of  a 
certain  house  in  the  Via  de'  Bardi,  described  vaguely 
as  "  one  of  those  large,  sombre  masses  of  stone  build- 
ing, pierced  by  comparatively  small  windows,  and 
surmounted  by  what  may  be  called  a  roofed  terrace 
or  loggia."  The  personality,  so  noble,  yet  so  in- 
effably sweet,  which  made  of  Casa  Guidi  a  "  pilgrim 
shrine,"  and  something  dearer  for  me,  was  scarcely 
more  real  than  that  which,  "  though  of  imagination 
all  compact,"  imparted  a  strange,  sad  interest  to  the 
home  of  Romola  de'  Bardi. 

I  had  the  happiness  of  knowing  George  Eliot  in 
London  many  years  ago,  meeting  her  occasionally  at 
the  house  of  Mr.  Chapman — then,  I  think,  her  home. 
She  was  at  that  time  known  only  as  Miss  Evans,  a 


THREE  GEE  AT  WOMEN.  41 

young  lady  of  remarkable  intellect  and  acquire- 
ments. I  did  not  divine  her  .absolute  genius.  She 
was  not  brilliant  in  the  ordinary  sense ;  yet  she 
made  a  deep  impression  upon  me,  and  I  have  yet  a 
distinct  recollection  of  her.  She  was  fair,  and 
struck  me  as  slight  and  thin  for  an  English  woman  ; 
perhaps  because  of  the  unusual  size  of  her  head  and 
the  massive  character  of  her  features.  Her  hair, 
which  I  have  seen  described  as  "  auburn,"  was 
almost  blonde  and  very  abundant.  She  wore  it, 
after  what  was  then  an  English  fashion,  in  large 
clusters  of  curls  on  either  side  of  her  face.  I  must 
still  think  that  a  beautiful  mode  for  beautiful  hair. 
ItfCertainly  served  to  soften  the  lady's  heavy  jaw 
and  somewhat  too  prominent  nose  and  cheek-bones, 
as  a  similar  arrangement  served  to  richly  frame  the 
small,  pale  face  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

Miss  Evans  certainly  impressed  me  at  first  as 
exceedingly  plain,  with  her  aggressive  jaw  and  her 
evasive  blue  eyes.  Neither  nose,  nor  mouth,  nor 
chin  were  to  my  liking  ;  but,  as  she  grew  interested 
and  earnest  in  conversation,  a  great  light  flashed 
over  or  out  of  her  face,  till  it  seemed  transfigured, 
while  the  sweetness  of  her  rare  smile  was  some- 
thing quite  indescribable.  It  is  over  the  massive  or 
craggy  features  so  often  belonging  to  men  and 
women  of  genius  that  the  sunlight  of  a  great  soul 


42  THREE  GEE  AT  WOMEN. 

plays  most  gloriously.  She  was  then,  as  I  have 
heard  she  always  continued,  singularly  modest  in 
regard  to  her  own  work  and  aims ;  but  she  could  no 
more  hide  her  prodigious  learning  than  an  Egyptian 
obelisk,  carved  from  base  to  summit  with  hiero- 
glyphic lore,  could  present  a  blank  face  to  the  world. 
I  remember  I  was  a  little  afraid  of  her  erudition, 
and  kept  in  the  very  outer  circles  of  the  after-dinner 
discussions  on  scientific  or  ethical  questions,  in 
which  she  was  at  home.  Still,  she  was  very  con- 
siderate, and  more  than  once  shifted  the  conversa- 
tion to  topics  more  familiar  to  me,  showing  a  gen- 
erous and  intelligent  interest  in  our  American  insti- 
tutions and  literature.  Slavery  was  then  "  the  burn- 
ing question,"  and  I  was  grateful  to  find  her  more 
tolerant  of  our  great  inherited  national  sin  than 
most  English  people,  as  she  more  clearly  compre- 
hended our  great  national  difficulty.  That  unhappy 
"  institution  "  was  then  a  great  barrier,  a  sort  of 
sea  of  ice,  between  the  English  and  American  mind. 
They  pitied  and  they  reprehended  us.  Perhaps  it 
was  because  of  my  too  sensitive  Americanism  ;  but 
Miss  Evans  seemed  to  me  to  the  last  lofty  and  cold. 
I  felt  that  her  head  was  among  the  stars — the  stars 
of  a  winter  night.  This  was  before  "  Adam  Bede  " 
had  revealed  to  us  the  heart  of  fire  under  the  snows 
of  Hecla. 


THREE  GREAT  WOMEN.  43 

Her  low,  soft  voice,  which  is  now  spoken  of  as 
"  sweet  and  exquisitely  modulated,"  seemed  to  me 
wanting  in  that  something  sympathetic  and  endear- 
ing which  such  voices  usually  possess.  It  was  not 
exactly  indifferent ;  but  it  seemed  to  have  no  vibra- 
tions of  human  weakness,  whatever  later  sorrow 
and  passion  may  have  imparted  to  it.  Subdued  as 
it  was,  it  was  the  voice  of  a  strong  woman ;  of  one 
who  needed  not  to  assert  herself  and  cared  not  for 
recognition. 

Before  I  revisited  London,  Marian  Evans  had 
been  merged  in  George  Eliot,  and  I  never  met 
her  in  the  period  of  her  greatest  renown.  I  was 
deterred  from  attempting  to  see  her  by  the  fear 
that,  in  the  many  intervening  years,  she  had  for- 
gotten me,  as  though  she  ever  forgot  anybody,  or 
anything !  I  heard  also,  that  she  shrank  from  meet- 
ing strangers  of  her  own  sex,  however  well  intro- 
duced, as  women  of  the  world,  and  liberal-minded, 
lest  she  should  see  in  their  eyes  or  feel  in  their 
manner,  a  wondering  disapproval  of  her  anomalous 
social  position  and  defective  ethics. 

I  did  not  approve  and  I  did  wonder,  but  had  we 
met,  she  would  have  seen  in  my  eyes,  only  grateful 
admiration  for  her  genius,  her  heroic  toil  and  splen- 
did achievements,  a  sad  respect  for  her  courageous 
patient,  grandly  reticent  soul.  Could  I  have  seen  her 


44  THREE  GREAT  WOMEN. 

again,  it  would  not  have  been  to  judge  her — but  it 
was  not  to  be !  When,  assured  that  she  remembered 
me  kindly,  I  made  the  effort,  I  found  that  she  was 
absent  from  London.  Not  long  after  her  return  I 
heard  of  the  illness  and  death  of  Mr.  Lewes,  and 
knew,  of  course,  that  it  was  not  a  time  to  try  to  see 
her ;  then  (ah !  how  soon  it  seemed !)  I  heard  of  her 
marriage  to  Mr.  Cross,  and  felt  that  it  was  not 
yet  time,  and  now  there  will  never  be  a  time.  But 
when  I  return  to  London,  I  will  make  a  pilgrimage 
to  that  grave  in  Highgate  cemetery.  I  am  glad  they 
did  not  bury  her  in  the  Abbey,  where  thousands  of 
curious  casual  visitors  might  tramp  about  her  and 
over  her,  hurrying  on  to  the  chapels  where  the  queens 
lie,  but  on  that  lovely  height  of  repose,  when  all 
who  come  to  that  spot  shall  be  real  pilgrims.  She 
belonged  to  the  whole  world  ;  she  lies  out  in  the 
world,  yet  but  a  little  way  removed  from  the  vast 
city,  over  whose  struggling,  aspiring,  suffering 
human  life  her  great  heart  yearned,  with  a  divine 
trouble.  Over  the  grave  of  the  greatest  woman  of 
England  no  bannered  arches  rise,  no  stained  windows 
turn  light  into  dusky  glory,  around  it  shall  come  no 
sacerdotal  splendor  and  stir  ;  but  above  it  shall  un- 
roll all  the  pomp  of  the  heavens,  and  by  it  shall 
pass  the  grand  possession  of  the  seasons. 
Florence  reverently  keeps  the  dust  of  another 


THREE  GREAT  WOMEN.  45 

great  Englishwoman  "  whose  poetry  was  a  golden 
link  between  Italy  and  England,"  and  more  golden 
largess  for  the  world.  She  lies  under  the  Tuscan 
sunlight,  among  the  Tuscan  flowers  she  loved  so 
well.  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  and  George 
Eliot  should  have  been  friends.  They  seem  to  me 
complements — the  devout,  singing  soul,  the  grand 
creative  mind  of  Anglo-Saxon  womanhood.  Milton 
might  have  stood  sponsor  for  the  one — Shakespeare 
for  the  other. 

During  my  first  visit  to  Florence,  in  my  youth,  I 
had  the  rare  happiness  of  spending  many  a  charmed 
hour  with  the  Brownings,  in  Casa  Guidi.  He  was 
all  brightness,  gladness  and  impassioned  energy,  hers 
was  a  subdued  glow  of  life,  an  underlying  warmth 
and  strength — her  very  presence  was  inspiration, 
gracious  sympathy,  comfort  inexpressible. 

What  most  impressed  me  in  this  great  little 
woman  was  not  her  genius  nor  her  erudition,  but 
her  spirituality,  her  clear  insight  into  divine 
mysteries,  her  knowledge  of  things  glorious  and 
unutterable,  "  which  eye  hath  not  seen,  and  ear  hath 
not  heard."  Great  as  is  my  reverence  for  George 
Eliot  it  seems  to  me  that  just  here  was  her  lacking — 
the  want  of  spirituality.  Abundance  of  imagination 
she  had,  but  the  divine  element  lay  almost  dor- 
mant in  her  nature.  One  of  her  critics  has  stated 


46  THREE  CHEAT  WOMEN. 

that  she  held  as  a  solemn  conviction,  the  result  of  a 
lifetime  of  observation,  that  "  in  proportion  as  the 
thoughts  of  men  and  women  are  removed  from  the 
earth  on  which  they  live — are  directed  from  their 
own  mutual  relations  and  responsibilities,  of  which 
they  alone  know  anything,  to  an  invisible  world, 
which  alone  can  be  apprehended  by  belief — they 
are  led  to  neglect  their  duty  to  each  other,  to 
squander  their  strength  in  vain  speculations,  which 
can  result  in  no  profit  to  themselves  or  their  fellow 
creatures,  which  diminish  their  capacity  for  stren- 
uous and  worthy  action  during  a  span  of  life,  brief 
indeed,  but  whose  consequences  will  extend  to  re- 
mote posterity." 

In  this  portion  of  her  philosophy,  in  this  tenet  of 
her  "religion  of  humanity,"  George  Eliot  seems  to 
have  grappled  with  a  great  truth, — yet  after  all,  it 
is  but  a  half-truth.  The  "  anointed  eyes  "  of  Eliza- 
beth Barrett  Browning  beheld  this  invisible  world, 
saw  its  imminent  nearness  to  ours,  which  in  fact  is 
included  in  it  as  the  crescent-moon  is  included  in 
the  unseen  circle  of  the  perfect  orb  into  which  it 
must  grow.  Much  has  been  said  of  "  George  Eliot's 
philosophy."  It  is  held,  and  I  think  justly,  to  have 
had  on  her  readers,  and  yet  more  on  those  who 
came  in  personal  contact  with  her,  a  refining  and 
an  elevating  influence,  and  yet  it  seems,  at  times, 


THREE   ORE  AT  WOMEN.  47 

as  dreary  as  it  is  lofty,   and  as  cold  as  it  is  pure. 

The  heart  of  the  good  woman  was  moved  and 
melted  by  the  noblest  and  teuderest  charity — a 
charity  essentially  Christian,  the  imagination  of  the 
poet  stretched  toward  the  mysterious,  the  immortal, 
the  infinite ;  but  the  massive  intellectuality  of  the 
philosopher  inclined  toward  the  materialistic  and 
the  fatalistic.  There  were  pagan  proclivities  in  her 
unbelieving  belief.  It  is  to  this  philosophy  that  her 
novels  owe  that  "  depressing  effect "  of  which  many 
complain,  and  which,  more  than  her  immense  learn- 
ing, "caviare  to  the  general,"  must  make  her  place 
in  literature  as  lonely  as  it  is  lofty.  It  seems  to  me 
that  even  her  faith  in  love  was  partial  and  halting — 
lacking  spiritual  courage.  She  never  dared  to  follow 
her  happiest,  most  loving  lovers  into  the  toil  and 
tug  of  actual,  every-day  married  and  middle-life. 
She  left  them  in  the  enchanted  garden  of  youth  and 
passion,  and  went  out  and  shut  the  gate. 

In  connection,  or  rather  in  contrast,  with  George 
Eliot,  I  have  thought  much  of  late  of  our  eloquent 
philanthropist,  Lucretia  Mott,  that  large -brained, 
soft -voiced  woman  whose  sweet  benignant  face, 
though  withdrawn  from  us,  yet  lights  the  way  to 
"dusty  death,"  and  shines  beyond.  She  also  was, 
in  religion,  an  advanced  Liberal,  with  a  spirit  as 
broad  as  the  heavens,  and  thoughts  as  free  as  their 


48  THREE  GREAT  WOMEN. 

winds ;  but  if  she  had  not  a  theological  belief  or 
creed  positive  and  defined,  she  had  yet  a  serene, 
steadfast  faith,  a  profound  though  childlike  trust 
in  the  supremacy  of  Good,  in  the  omnipotence  of 
Love.  They  were  her  divinities  though  she  did 
not  always  name  them  God  and  Christ.  The  two 
noble  women,  the  Quakeress  and  the  Positivist,  were 
moved  by  equal  love  and  pity  for  their  fellow- 
creatures,  equal  sympathy  with  the  sorrows  and 
needs  of  every  form  of  "creation  which groaneth and 
travaileth  unto  the  perfect  day ; "  but  the  one  saw 
the  perfect  day  in  the  face  of  fair  humanity, — the 
other  divined  it  from  the  imperative  want,  the  im- 
mense dissatisfaction  of  her  own  great  soul.  Both 
at  one  time  came  in  conflict  with  existing  laws,  but 
"  with  a  difference : "  the  one  in  defence  of  the 
rights  of  a  race  to  "  life  and  liberty,"  the  other  in 
assertion  of  the  right  of  the  individual  to  the  "  pur- 
suit of  happiness."  One  leaves  a  memory  in  which 
there  is  nothing  to  "  cause  a  brother  to  offend," — 
the  other  has  left  a  record  over  which  the  judicious 
may  grieve,  and  weak  and  unwary  feet  may  stumble. 
Yet  I  believe  they  were  equally  brave  and  sincere, 
equally  unselfish  in  the  beginning,  perhaps  always. 
I  dare  not  judge.  Both  were  mighty  workers. 
One,  the  woman  of  action,  toiled  cheerily  amid 
the  rush  and  turmoil  of  the  world  of  her  time, 


THREE  GEE  AT  WOMEN.  49 

eagerly  watching  the  advancing  day  and  the  broad- 
ening horizon  of  human  progress — toiled  for  the 
humblest,  if  not  the  most  hopeless  of  God's  creatures. 
The  other,  the  woman  of  thought,  wrought  finely, 
patiently  and  somewhat  sadly,  in  retreat  from  the 
world,  for  the  most  part,  for  already  enlightened 
souls  and  advanced  intelligences — wrought,  ever 
haunted  by  a  sense  of  laws  immutable,  inexorable 
— the  stern  doctrine  of  the  eternal  consequences  of 
human  actions.  One  rejoiced  in  the  grand  possi- 
bilities of  life — the  other  was  pained  by  its  fatal 
limitations.  One  worked  in  the  sunshine — the  other 
in  the  shadow.  One  inspired  in  us  infinite  hope, 
the  other  infinite  patience,  or  the  one  roused  us  to 
heroic  struggle,  the  other  nerved  us  to  sublime  en- 
durance— the  prophetess  of  the  New  World,  the 
sibyl  of  the  Old. 

4 


HOW     WE    STORMED     PIKE'S    PEAK, 
BEFORE  THE  RAILWAY. 

A  NEW-WORLD    ADVENTURE. 


YEARS  ago,  it  matters  not  how  many,  but  before 
the  boldest  enterprising  brain  in  the  then  Territory 
of  Colorado  had  dreamed  of  the  railway  which  now 
renders  the  ascent  of  Pike's  Peak  an  easy  and  pro- 
saic affair,  I,  being  then  at  Manitou,  on  my  own 
acre-and-a-half-estate,  under  the  shadow  of  the  big 
mountain  (alas  !  my  lost  paradise),  was  honored  by 
the  following  gracious  invitation  to  come  up  higher : 

"  The  undersigned  members  of  the  United  States 
Signal  Corps  have  the  honor  to  respectfully  request 
the  pleasure  of  your  company  at  the  opening  of  the 
Summit  Station,  Saturday,  Oct.  11,  1873." 

This  was  signed  by  the  "  Observer  in  Charge  " 
and  his  assistants,  and  bore  date,  "  United  States 
Signal  Office,  Summit  of  Pike's  Peak,  Colorado  Ter- 
ritory, 14,216  feet  above  sea  level."  With  this  start- 
ling invitation  came  a  detailed  and  dazzling  verbal 


UOW  WE  STORMED  PIKE'S  PEAK.  51 

programme.  The  guests  of  the  Signal  Corps  were 
expected  to  spend  the  night  of  the  10th  on  the  dread 
summit — some  said,  were  to  be  lodged  and  feasted 
at  the  new  station  for  two  nights  and  one  entire 
day.  Afterward,  we  heard  that  there  was  to  be 
music  and  dancing — actually  a  ball  to  grace  the  oc- 
casion— with  "  white  kids,"  "  biled  shirts,"  and 
"  toothpick  coats  ; "  but,  I  believe,  there  was  never 
any  solid  foundation  for  this  rumor.  Yet  it  was  a  novel 
and  a  magnificent  idea  to  have  a  grand  gathering  of 
gay  ladies  and  grave  savans,  with  festivities  of  any 
kind,  at  so  sublime  an  elevation,  amid  the  fine,  elec- 
trical airs,  under  the  sweeping  clouds  of  heaven. 
It  would  be  like  a  wonderful  play  on  a  most  stupen- 
dous stage,  with  some  of  the  most  glorious  and 
awful  scenery  in  the  world. 

The  golden  days  rolled  on  and  brought  the  gold- 
en est  day  of  all — the  momentous  Friday,  the  10th 
of  the  month.  We  laughed  at  the  old  marine  super- 
stition when  we  saw  it  dawn  in  matchless  splen- 
dor, warm,  and  almost  still.  Prudent  friends,  how- 
ever, advised  me  not  to  venture  on  so  grave  an  un- 
dertaking at  so  late  a  season  of  the  year,  reminding 
me  of  the  well-known  treachery  of  wicked  old  Pike, 
who  sometimes,  with  his  bald  head  bathed  in  sun- 
light, knocks  down  his  visitors  with  tornadoes  and 
steals  all  their  vitality  with  ferocious  cold.  I  wa- 


52  HOW  WE  STORMED  PIKE'S  PEAK. 

vered,  then  I  rallied ;  I  gave  up ;  I  re-resolved ;  then 
I  hesitated  again.  The  woman  who  hesitates  loses 
her  horse.  The  first  I  knew,  mine,  or  the  one 
I  had  spoken  for,  was  gone — lent  to  another  and  a 
bolder  party.  Then — I  am  proud  of  the  fact,  for  it 
shows  decision  of  character  and  iron  nerve — just  as 
soon  as — the  very  moment  that  I  found  I  could  not 
go— I  was  determined  to  go.  I  dressed  in  ten  min- 
utes— actually  in  ten  minutes.  I  ordered  a  car- 
riage ;  had  put  in  it  my  saddle  and  bridle  and  red 
camping  blankets,  then  sprang  in  myself,  and  not 
stopping  to  bid  a  tender  farewell  to  my  only  child, 
lest  it  should  melt  my  stern  resolve,  dashed  away 
toward  the  old  "  one-horse  town,"  Colorado  City,  hop- 
ing to  obtain  that  one  horse  and  intercept  the  grand 
procession  of  Pike's  Peakers,  which  was  to  leave  the 
"  new  town,"  Colorado  Springs,  at  9  A.  M.  It  was 
already  considerably  past  that  hour,  but  they  had 
three  miles  to  come.  Arrived  at  this  venerable 
metropolis,  I  drove  to  the  first  livery-stable.  Xo 
horses — not  even  a  mule.  I  drove  to  the  second 
and  last  stable.  There  was  but  one  pony  belong- 
ing to  the  establishment  sturdy  enough  to  carry  a 
woman  of  my  weight  up  Pike's  Peak,  and  he  had 
just  been  turned  out  to  grass  after  a  summer  of 
hard  service ;  besides  he  was  uncommonly  spirited, 
and  had  never  been  mounted  by  one  of  the  weaker 


HOW  WE  STORMED  PIKE'S  PEAK.  53 

and  timider  sex.  But  science  is  remorseless  and 
rash.  I  said  I  would  take  him,  and  all  the  risks,  if 
he  could  be  caught.  You  see,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
if  I  did  not  make  Pike's  Peak  on  that  day  my  life 
would  be  a  signal  failure.  I  think  my  spirit  and 
resolve  were  contagious.  The  gallant  stable-man 
started  off  at  once,  halter  in  hand,  and  soon  passed 
out  of  sight  over  the  windy,  brown  hills.  I  sat  in 
the  carriage  calmly  waiting  upon  fate,  and  lo,  as  I 
waited,  I  beheld,  away  at  my  right,  the  long  proces- 
sion of  pilgrims  slowly  filing  over  the  foot-hills, 
evidently  making  no  account  of  me  or  my  fortunes. 
They  were  taking  a  short  cut  to  Bear  Creek  Canon, 
and  not  coming  through  the  old  town  at  all !  Then, 
for  the  first  time,  my  courage  failed  me,  and  I  talked 
of  giving  up ;  but  my  good  driver  cheered  me  by 
the  assurance  that  if  I  could  get  my  horse  within 
half  an  hour  I  could  overtake  them  by  riding  hard. 
I  resolved  to  ride  hard,  if  so  be  that  I  could  ride  at 
all.  In  a  very  brief  time  we  heard  the  clatter  of 
hoofs,  and,  looking  round,  saw  the  stable-man  com- 
ing like  the  wind,  on  a  fiery,  compact  little  horse — 
the  very  animal  for  such  an  emergency.  Never  was 
pony  more  expeditiously  saddled,  bridled,  and 
mounted.  My  blankets  were  strapped  on  behind 
me.  I  took  my  waterproof  before  me  and  was  off, 
at  first  on  a  round  trot — a  good  deal  too  round — 


54  HOW  WE  STORMED  PIKE'S  PEAK. 

then  on  a  lope,  then  on  a  long,  swinging  gallop  that 
rapidly  devoured  the  distance.  The  mouth  of  the 
canon  had  ere  this  swallowed  up  the  party  I  hoped 
to  join,  but  I  knew  that  by  following  the  trail  and 
keeping  the  telegraph  poles  in  sight  I  would  have 
them  at  last.  I  was  not  destined  to  go  far  on  the 
wild  way  alone.  Seeing  two  horsemen  riding  hard 
behind  me,  I  took  them  not  for  highwaymen,  but 
belated  excursionists  like  me.  They  also  proved  to 
be  friends  and  pleasant  companions. 

I  saw  that  day  for  the  first  time,  the  grander  and 
more  rugged  portion  of  Bear  Creek  Canon,  yet  not 
the  least  beautiful.  The  stream  was  pure  and 
sparkling,  dashing  along  with  arrowy  swiftness,  and 
leaping  down  the  rocks  as  in  a  mad  frolic,  making 
innumerable  falls,  some  of  them  of  considerable 
height  and  wonderful  beauty.  The  foliage  for  the 
greater  part  of  the  way  is  very  luxuriant,  and  is  of 
all  shades,  from  the  deep  green  of  the  pine  to  the 
pale  gold  of  the  cottonwood.  On  the  highest  moun- 
tain sides,  where  but  a  few  weeks  before  it  seemed 
that  the  very  glory  of  God  had  descended,  sombre 
autumnal  tints  prevailed,  but  in  these  sheltered 
places  we  found  slight  traces  of  frost.  Indeed  the 
lovely  winding  pass  was  still  illuminated  with 
brilliant  color.  The  woodbine's  red  banners  waved 
overhead.  The  sumac  made  our  pathway  radi- 


HOW  WE  STORMED  PIKE'S  PEAK.  55 

ant,  so  that  amid  the  grandeur  and  Sabbath  still- 
ness of  the  scene,  the  devout  heart  could  behold 
the  Lord  in  many  a  "  burning  bush."  Most  lovely 
were  the  golden  aspens  overarching  our  way,  and 
scattering  down  upon  us  their  wonderful  largess 
of  round,  coin-like  leaves,  reminding  one  of  the 
munificent  shower  Jove  sent  upon  Danaii — before 
he  suspended  specie  payments. 

But  as  we  rose  higher,  we  found  a  hideous  change 
— a  vast  tract  of  primeval  pines,  desolate  and  dead, 
from  having  been  burned  over.  The  trees  were 
mostly  standing — literally  a  "  black  forest." 

Here  and  there  nature  seemed  to  be  making  an 
effort  to  start  a  new  growth  of  the  same  sort,  but 
was  evidently  giving  up  and  falling  back  on  cotton- 
wood — being  out  of  pine  stuff. 

Pike's  Peak  Lake — lying  in  the  lap  of  the  moun- 
tain some  11,000  feet  above  sea-level — is  a  pretty, 
civilized-looking  sheet  of  water.  Beside  it,  our 
large  party  having  come  together,  we  took  our 
lunch  on  one  of  the  rude  tables  of  stone  which  pic- 
nickers never  lack  in  this  land  once  flowing  with 
ice  and  boulders.  We  had  more  sandwiches  than 
we  needed.  Anticipating  the  semi-celestial  banquet 
that  awaited  us  up  above,  and  not  wishing  to  take 
the  fine  edge  off  our  appetites,  we  left  them  and 
pushed  on.  A  short  distance  above  the  lake  we 


56  HOW  WE  STOEMED  PIKE'S  PEAK. 

passed  some  of  the  signal  station  men,  making  des- 
perate efforts  to  drive  on  two  broken  down  pack 
mules,  or,  rather,  burros,  or  jacks.  To  our  sympa- 
thizing inquiries,  the  drivers  said  the  poor  little 
beasts  were  "  played  out,"  having  been  on  the  trail, 
day  and  night,  for  six  weeks.  The  miserable  creat- 
ures showing  more  wounds  than  Caesar's,  and  of  a 
less-merciful  sort,  being  long-established  "raws," 
wore  more  than  the  usual  discouraged,  yet  patient, 
look  of  their  kind,  and  we  were  all  touched  by  their 
misfortunes,  but  not  to  the  extent  of  dividing  their 
burden  among  our  comparatively  fresh  animals. 
Ah,  had  we  known  of  what  those  burdens  consisted ! 

Shortly  after  this  encounter  we  began  the  really 
difficult,  weary,  and  dreary  portion  of  the  ascent. 
Every  few  hundred  feet  the  way  grew  more  sterile 
and  bare.  The  cheerful  cotton- woods  fell  away,  the 
hardy  pines  deserted  us,  only  low  cedars,  grown 
gnarly,  grotesque,  and  one-sided,  by  taking  the  full 
brunt  of  the  terrible  winter  winds  and  tempests,  held 
out.  Sometimes  they  seemed  like  awful  barbaric 
shapes,  creeping  and  crouching  up  the  rocky  ridge 
and  just  peeping  down,  as  though  on  a  stealthy 
look-out  for  an  enemy. 

At  last,  we  scarcely  knew  where,  these  were  left 
behind,  and  we  had  passed  timber  line.  A  few 
cheery  flowers  kept  us  company  a  little  further.  I 


WE  STORMED  PIKE'S  PEAK.  57 

was  touched  by  the  sight  of  a  daring  little  blue- 
bell close  by  the  trail.  "  No  flower  of  her  kindred," 
no  blossom  of  any  kind,  no  green  thing  was  nigh. 
Yet  though  so  solitary,  she  seemed  strangely  at 
home  and  in  place.  The  great  sky  was  of  her  color 
— the  strong  mountain  wind  was  tempered  to  her. 
She  swayed  to  its  surges  as  fearlessly  as  the  small 
sea-bird  rocks  on  the  swell  of  the  ocean. 

From  points  and  plateaus  above  timber  line  you 
have  views  ever  increasing  in  extent  and  sublimity, 
of  the  vast  plains  to  the  right,  and  the  great  ranges 
to  the  left.  These  made  me  almost  insensible  to  my 
own  fatigue  and  the  terrible  toil  of  my  horse.  But 
the  altitude  had  a  peculiarly  unpleasant  effect  on 
several  of  the  party,  causing  headache  and  a  sick- 
ness very  like  mal  de  mer.  One  delicate  young 
girl  fainted  twice,  and  had  to  be  taken  from  her 
horse  and  laid  by  the  wayside  till  she  could  be 
restored  to  consciousness. 

The  last  mile  or  two  of  the  trail  seemed  longer 
than  leagues.  It  is  at  that  height  the  strangest 
trail  ever  constructed.  It  is  a  sort  of  rude  Russ 
pavement  of  unknown  depth.  Pike's  Peak  on  the 
summit,  and  for  a  long  distance  down,  is  so  thickly 
covered  by  huge  blocks  of  porphyry  that  scarcely  a 
foot  of  ground  shows  between.  These  rocks  could 
not  be,  cleared  out  of  the  way — there  was  nowhere 


58  HOW  WE  STORMED  PIKE'S  PEAK. 

to  put  them — so  the  trail  was  made  by  merely  fill- 
ing up  breaks  and  crevices  with  smaller  stones,  and 
it  was  a  sort  of  causeway  we  traveled  over  that 
evening.  Ridge  after  ridge  we  mounted,  thinking 
it  the  summit,  where  rest  and  warmth  and  refresh- 
ments awaited  us  ;  but  that  was  still  further  on,  and 
we  went  winding  and  creeping  up,  higher  and  higher, 
and  the  sun  sank  and  the  wind  rose,  and  night,  a 
strange,  chill,  solemn,  super-mundane  night,  fell  upon 
us.  We  were  all  meek  and  quiet.  Even  the  horses, 
as  they  steadily  climbed,  and  struggled,  and  twisted 
from  point  to  point,  panting  heavily  and  quivering 
in  every  limb,  seemed  oppressed  with  awe,  a  subdued 
terror,  and  it  was  a  relief  when  at  length  and  quite 
suddenly  we  passed  over  the  last  ridge,  to  be 
greeted  by  a  joyful  bray  from  a  burro  standing  by 
the  station,  and  to  hear  it  answered  by  an  animal 
of  the  same  family  connection  in  our  cavalcade. 
Our  horses  gave  a  feeble  responsive  whinny.  All  dis- 
tinctions of  caste  were  forgotten  at  that  supreme 
moment.  There  was  a  camp-fire  blazing  brightly 
before  the  little  low  stone  house,  from  which  the 
stars  were  to  be  reviewed,  and  the  winds  timed, 
and  the  lower  world  signaled  all  through  the  wild 
winter,  and  beside  this  fire  stood  two  or  three  of 
the  young  gentlemen  of  the  corps.  They  received 
us  with  effusion,  but  also,  I  noticed,  with  a  somewhat 


HOW  WE  STORMED  PIKE'S  PEAK.  59 

perplexed  and  pensive  expression  of  countenance. 
Walking  over  those  massive  rocks,  in  the  night 
time,  was  a  difficult  and  perilous  work — especially 
as  we  were  all  benumbed  with  cold,  and  cramped 
by  long  riding — so,  slowly  we  straggled  and  stumbled 
into  the  circle  of  the  lurid  firelight.  We  had  all 
shouted  in  the  morning  at  the  first  full  view  of  Pike's 
Peak.  We  did  not  shout  now.  Our  feelings  were 
too  much  for  us.  There  were  between  twenty  and 
thirty  of  our  party — not  very  poetic  just  then — not 
much  puffed  up  by  science — but,  it  must  be  confessed, 
tired,  cold,  hungry  and  forlorn.  There  were  three 
or  four  gentlemen  quite  hors  de  combat — as  many 
ladies  suffering  from  sick  headache — that  young  girl 
still  fainting — and  three  clergymen,  looking  more 
genuinely  solemn  than  ever  they  had  looked  in  their 
pulpits — altogether  a  pretty  helpless  set.  Still,  the 
thought  of  a  hot  supper,  coffee  and  tea,  remained  to 
cheer  us.  We  wrapped  ourselves  in  our  blankets, 
crept  near  the  fire,  and  stoutly  declared  it  was  "  good 
to  be  there  " — so  wild,  so  romantic  and  scientific  and 
jolly.  The  first  discovery  that  damped  our  exuberant 
spirits  was  that  the  house  was  not  finished — the 
floor  only  just  being  laid  in  one  of  the  two  little  rooms 
— that  no  stoves  were  up,  and  that,  consequently, 
we  must  have  our  supper  cooked  by  the  camp-fire. 
But  such  of  us  old  mountaineers  as  had  camped 


60  HOW  WE  STORMED  PIKE'S  PEAK. 

out,  felt  equal  to  the  occasion.  Still,  a  vague  feeling 
of  apprehension  fell  upon  me  as  this  announcement 
was  followed  by  a  whispered  and  apparently  anx- 
ious consultation  between  our  hosts  and  their  men. 
Then  one  of  the  officers,  a  nice-looking  young  man, 
which  his  name  was  Sackett,  came  forward,  "  smiled 
a  sickly  sort  of  smile,"  and  said,  in  effect — "  Ladies 
and  gentlemen,  I  regret  exceedingly  to  have  to 
state  that  in  consequence  of  two  of  our  pack-animals 
having  played  out  on  the  trail,  and  failed  to  come  to 
time,  most  of  our  provisions  are  down  below,  and 
we  must  ask  you  to  content  yourselves  with  a 
supper  of  bread  and  butter  and  coffee.  We  hope 
to  do  better  for  you  to-morrow — the  supplies  will 
undoubtedly  be  up  soon  after  moon-rise."  An  elo- 
quent but  somewhat  solemn  silence  followed  this 
neat  little  speech.  We  were  very  hungry,  mind. 
Then  we  began  to  consider  that  we  could  not  starve 
on  bread  and  butter,  and  that  there  was  a  vast 
amount  of  nourishment  in  coffee,  especially  cafe 
au  lait.  Next,  like  a  thunder-bolt  from  a  clear  sky, 
fell  the  announcement  that  the  bread  was  all  "  down 
below."  "Well,  we  can  eat  crackers!"  cried  a 
voice  somewhat  forced  and  hysterical  in  its  cheerful- 
ness— my  own.  "  The  crackers  are  down  below,  too." 
"  Well,  at  least,  we  shall  have  coffee.  Soldiers 
have  sometimes  marched  and  fought  and  died  on 


HOW  WE  STOKMED  PIKE'S  PEAK.  61 

coffee."  "Yes,  ma'am,  but  I'm  sorry  to  say  the 
coffee  is  down  below." 

It  was — but  I  cannot  do  justice  to  the  scene,  to  the 
serious  nature  of  the  emergency.  Really,  things 
were  at  a  desperate  pass.  Even  the  telegraph  wires 
were  "  down  below,"  broken  by  the  storm  of  a  week 
before.  Knowing  that  the  eyes  of  the  world  would 
be  upon  us,  we  had  thought  much  of  sending  down 
from  the  station  thrilling  electrical  messages  to  our 
mothers,  brothers,  wives,  and  husbands — to  the  Pres- 
ident of  the  United  States,  the  Pope  of  Rome,  the 
Queen  and  Kaiser  and  other  near  and  dear  friends, — 
to  assure  them  that  though  seeing  high  life,  just  be- 
low stars,  we  still  remembered  them  and  thought  well 
of  them.  Now  we  felt  ourselves  cut  off  from  all  the 
world  and  the  rest  of  mankind — exiled  as  well  as  ex- 
alted— castaway  on  a  desolate  island  in  a  sea  of  mist 
and  night. 

Then  up  jumps  Observer  Sackett,  and  says  he, 
"  Boys,  there  is  a  sack  of  flour — there  is  a  keg  of 
water — there  is  yeast-powder — there  are  a  couple 
of  skillets — we  must  fall  back  on  pancakes." 

The  magic  word  went  round,  and  soon  brightened 
eyes  were  curiously  watching  the  process  of  batter- 
mixing  and  pancake-baking.  It  was  here  that,  after 
witnessing  several  lamentable  failures  in  the  matter 
of  ladling  out  and  turning  the  unwieldy  cakes,  this 


62  HOW  WE  STORMED  PIKE'S  PEAK. 

present  chronicler,  sternly  putting  down  her  natural 
bashfulness,  came  "  to  the  fore,"  and,  she  natters  her- 
self, did  that  good  old-fashioned  housekeeper,  her 
mother,  some  credit.  It  was  a  strange,  wild  scene, 
that  motley  group,  lit  up  by  the  nickering  firelight 
— young  officers,  old  mountaineers,  Mexican  mule- 
teers ;  pale,  disheartened,  silent  women ;  that  still 
fainting  child,  with  her  anxious  father  bending  over 
her ;  the  three  ministers,  more  or  less  dolorous- 
looking  ;  the  other  male  tourists,  more  or  less  sick 
— one  of  them  an  English  artist,  so  fastidious  in 
his  tastes  and  so  fixed  in  his  elegant  habits,  that  I  half 
believed  he  would  that  night  put  his  boots  out  of  the 
door  of  the  station  to  be  blacked — the  volunteer  cook, 
"  wildly  clad  "  in  an  old  army  overcoat,  in  addition 
to  various  other  wraps,  uneasily  balancing  herself 
on  a  boulder,  dipping  out  and  turning  pancakes,  now 
shaken  by  strong  gusts  of  wind,  now  blinded  and 
choked  by  great  whiffs  of  smoke.  On  one  side  of 
the  circle  shivered  and  drooped  the  patient  horses, 
not  daring  to  move  lest  they  should  fall  into  a  crev- 
ice or  pit ;  on  the  other  side  the  ugly  black  rocks, 
stretching  away  to  the  precipice  and  the  blacker 
abyss  of  the  crater,  and  over  all  the  driving,  swoop- 
ing clouds  and  the  awful  infinite  night. 

At  length  we  were  summoned  to  the  table,  pre- 
pared for  us  in  the  only  finished  room  of  the  station. 


HOW  WE  STORMED  PIKE'S  PEAK.  63 

We  beheld  a  real  table-cloth  spread  on  the  floor, 
with  plates,  knives,  forks,  spoons,  and  goblets,  but  no 
napkins  or  finger-glasses.  Indeed  the  goblets  were 
obliged  to  do  double  service,  as  receptacles  for  the 
candles — the  candlesticks  being  "down  below." 
There  were  generously  set  forth  two  kegs  of  butter,  a 
demijohn  of  California  port,  a  jar  of  pickles,  several 
cans  of  cherries,  and  some  condensed  milk.  We  could 
any  of  us  help  ourselves  to  condensed  milk  and  pickles. 
The  pancakes,  or  "  flapjacks,"  or  "  flannel-cakes" — we 
preferred  the  latter  name  for  the  warm  sound — were 
brought  in  on  a  large  plate  and  dumped  down  in  the 
centre  of  the  table-cloth,  about  which  we  sat  on  blan- 
kets and  blocks.  The  holy  men  took  counsel,  and  one 
lifted  up  his  voice  and  asked  a  blessing  on  our  repast 
and  on  the  hospitable  and  scientific  gentlemen  who 
had  provided  it  for  us.  This  was  either  an  instance 
of  almost  divine  Christian  charity,  or  a  piece  of 
solemn,  yet  sly,  satire  ;  I  have  never  yet  made  up  my 
mind  which.  We  were  helped  to  pancakes  liberally, 
and  our  hosts  were  lavish  with  their  California  port, 
and  absolutely  prodigal  with  their  pickles.  They 
put  a  brave  front  on  the  affair,  and  laughed  and 
joked ;  but  I  knew  it  was  hard  work  for  the  poor 
fellows.  One  told  me  the  next  day  that  he  felt  all  that 
night  like  throwing  himself  off  the  peak  and  going 
to  bed  in  the  crater.  It  was  strange  how  soon  that 


64  HOW  WE  STOEMED  PIKE'S  PEAK. 

meal  was  over — the  multitude  fed  and  satisfied,  and 
the  remains  cleared  away  to  one  corner,  with  the 
dishes.  It  was  like  unto  the  miraculous  feast  in 
the  wilderness,  inasmuch  as  the  fragments  gathered 
up  seemed  more  than  the  original  supply  of  pan- 
cakes. Yet  enough  had  been  eaten  to  cause  several 
of  our  pilgrims  serious  distress  in  the  night.  I  sus- 
pect that  the  yeast-powder  was  "  down  below,"  or 
"  played  out "  with  the  salt — or  it  may  be  that  the 
flour,  after  having  been  toted  up  to  such  an  un- 
christian altitude,  refused  to  go  higher ; — certain  it 
is,  the  result  was  a  general  heavinesss  and  flatness. 
Sackett  and  I  had  done  our  best,  but  pancakes 
baked  under  such  circumstances  of  wind  and 
weather,  darkness,  smoke,  and  cinders,  must  neces- 
sarily be  underdone  or  overdone,  and  come  to  the 
table  collapsed,  cold,  and  speckled.  Try  it  yourself. 
A  profound  distrust  of  these  prevented  me  from 
gourmandizing.  I  solemnly  partook  of  a  morsel, 
washed  down  by  a  sacramental  sip  of  wine,  and 
followed  by  half  a  dozen  canned  cherries — voild,  tout. 
The  banquet  over,  preparations  were  made  for  our 
sleeping.  Then,  alas !  it  was  discovered  that  the 
blankets  intended  for  our  beds  were  not  exactly 
"  down  below,"  but  quite  unfit  for  use.  The  poor 
pack-mule  which  had  brought  them  up  had,  on  the 
way,  sunk  beneath  his  burden,  or,  bent  on  suicide, 


UOW  WE  STORMED  PIKE'S  PEAK.  65 

rolled  down  a  steep  place  into  the  creek,  wetting 
his  pack  through  and  through.  So  we  were  obliged 
to  content  ourselves  with  the  blankets  we  had 
brought  with  us.  Wrapped  in  these,  we  laid  our- 
selves down  to  pleasant  dreams,  some  eighteen 
or  twenty  of  us,  on  the  rough  floor  of  one  little 
room.  Cold  as  it  was  and  windy,  we  were  compelled 
to  leave  the  door  wide  open.  It  takes  a  great  deal 
of  this  thin  air  to  keep  you  up — especially  if  you 
take  nothing  else.  I  lay  almost  directly  before  the 
door  with  my  head  pillowed  on  my  saddle.  At  last  I 
was  roughing  it  to  my  entire  satisfaction.  So  well 
wrapped  was  I  that  I  did  not  suffer  much  from  the 
hardness  of  my  bed  or  from  cold.  Once  I  attempted 
to  move  my  head  out  of  the  draft,  but  got  into  the 
supper  things,  upset  a  half  empty  fruit-can,  and  did 
great  execution  among  the  goblets.  So  mortal  tired, 
hungry,  and  anxious  were  we  that  we  could  not  hail 
with  proper  enthusiasm  the  rising  of  the  moon  which 
we  witnessed  through  that  wide  open  door.  It  was 
a  red,  gibbous  moon,  and  had  an  uncanny,  sinister 
look,  as  it  came  stealthily  up  from  the  misty  abyss 
beyond  the  mountains,  and  peeped  over  the  rocks 
at  us  and  in  upon  us,  miserable  sinners,  then  slowly 
climbed  up  among  the  sombre  clouds,  an  ugly, 
awful  shape.  But  it  gave  light  enough  to  allow  the 
men  and  boys  to  lead  our  poor  horses  safely  down 


66  HOW  WE  STORMED  PIKE'S  PEAK. 

that  perilous  trail  to  a  sheltered  spot,  where  there 
was  a  camp,  with  water  and  grass. 

A  portion  of  the  floor  in  the  other  room  had  been 
laid  after  we  came,  and  on  this  several  gentlemen, 
officers,  and  reporters,  reposed.  Others  sat  up,  out- 
side, all  night,  keeping  up  the  camp-fire,  with  roast- 
ing faces  and  freezing  backs.  It  was  a  sublime 
watch.  The  cold  stars  and  the  gibbous  moon  kept 
them  company ;  the  mountain  winds  forsook  them 
not,  and  the  mountain-rats,  or  conies,  came  about 
them  in  a  friendly  way,  fearlessly  frisking  in  the 
firelight.  They  visited  us  also,  careering  over  me 
just  as  I  was  dropping  off  into  my  first  sleep,  and 
causing  me  to  start  up  with  a  wild  cry  of  "  Rats  !  " 
I  was  assured  they  were  only  harmless  conies,  such 
as  are  spoken  of  in  Holy  Writ  as  "  hiding  in  the 
clefts  of  the  rocks  " — but  they  had  all  the  moral 
effect  of  rats.  One  perched  herself  on  my  breast, 
while  her  young  ones  played  hide-and-seek  through 
the  hollow  of  my  saddle,  tearing  back  and  forth  di- 
rectly under  my  head.  I  knew  they  were  innocent, 
Scriptural  creatures,  but  their  gambols  were  a  little 
distracting.  It  was  an  awful  night,  there  is  no 
denying  it.  Some  suffered  severely  from  the  cold, 
most  were  sick,  and  all  were  disgusted  and  in- 
dignant. Heavy  sighs  were  heard,  and  weary  turn- 
ings and  faint  groans,  and  muttered  execrations;  the 


HOW  WE  STORMED  PIKE'S  PEAK.  67 

first  mostly  from  the  ministers,  a  class  of  men  never 
expected,  nor  expecting,  to  "  rough  it,"  in  this  world  or 
the  next.  Nobody  slept  a  wink,  of  course,  but  every- 
body snored  sooner  or  later.  There  was  something 
in  the  light  air  and  hard  bed  that  caused  snoring  in 
well-bred  nostrils  that  had  never  been  convicted 
of  such  vulgarity  before.  We  know  not  what  we 
may  come  down  to  on  Pike's  Peak ; — we  certainly 
heard  there  some  desperate  puns  and  ghastly  jokes. 
Witticisms  alternated  with  wailings,  and  laughter 
with  gnashing  of  teeth.  "After  all,"  remarked  a 
clerical  scientist,  "  this  is  a  great  institution,  and  we 
shall  be  consoled  next  winter  by  knowing  all  about 
the  velocity  of  the  winds  up  on  Pike's  Peak." 

"  Give  me  to  know,"  faintly  cried  a  sick  brother, 
"  the  velocity  of  a  mule  down  from  Pike's  Peak." 

At  last,  at  last,  as  I  lay  looking  out  of  that  crowded 
black  hole  of  Colorado,  through  the  open  door,  medi- 
tating on  the  vanity  of  human  hopes  and  the  variety 
of  human  nature,  I  saw  the  moonlight  and  starlight 
glimmer  slowly  out,  and  the  great  dark  depths  of  air 
at  the  east  of  the  Peak,  change  into  a  vast  purple  sea, 
and  that  again  change  into  violet,  and  crimson,  and 
gold,  with  a  luminous,  throbbing  point  in  the  centre. 
Brighter  grew  the  strange  light,  and  larger  and  rud- 
dier, till  it  was  like  a  great  ship  on  fire — then  it 
rose  majestically  from  out  the  deep,  and  mounted 


68  HOW  WE  STORMED  PIKE'S  PEAK. 

the  sky — the  glorious,  glad,  thrice-welcome  sun. 
Night  gathered  up  her  skirts  and  fled  away,  and 
the  cold  winds  followed  after,  and  the  camp-fire  was 
replenished,  and  we  took  up  our  beds  and  went  forth 
to  sit  beside  it  and  wait  for  breakfast.  Alas,  the 
promised  pack-mules  had  not  come  up  with  the  sun ! 
Alas,  one  of  their  kind  on  the  summit  had  got  at 
the  flour-sack  in  the  night,  pawed  it  to  pieces,  and 
scattered  the  contents  abroad !  One  of  the  ministers 
took  it  for  a  snow-storm.  Unhappily,  there  could 
be  enough  gathered  up  to  make  another  batch  of 
those  peculiar  pancakes. 

We  bathed  "  in  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  morning 
air."  It  was  all  the  ablution  we  had — wash-bowls 
and  towels  being  "down  below,"  and  water  too 
scarce  to  be  fooled  with.  Sergeant  Boehmer  had 
only  about  a  pint  in  which  to  wash  all  the  supper 
dishes.  I  voluntered  to  wipe  them  for  him.  The 
cloth  he  gave  me  for  the  purpose  was  a  flour-sack, 
turned  inside  out  for  cleanliness.  The  result  on  the 
china  was  an  obstinate  stickiness,  but,  as  pancakes 
were  to  be  eaten  off  it,  'twas  not  much  matter.  I  was 
at  once  struck  by  the  mottled  appearance  of  the 
plates  handed  to  me.  They  seemed  to  contain  small 
fragment  of  printed  matter.  At  length,  I  made 
out  the  words  :  "  Another  Murder,"  "  Divorces 
Granted,"  "  Potter  Palmer's  New  Hotel,"  and  per- 


IIOW  WE  STORMED  PIKE'S  PEAK.  69 

ceived  that  the  Sergeant  was  using  a  copy  of  the 
Chicago  Tribune  as  a  dish-cloth.  That  lively  journal 
did  not  stand  water  as  well  as  it  had  stood  fire. 

One  little  streak  of  luck  was  vouchsafed  to  us. 
A  small  package  of  raw  coffee  was  discovered  in  a 
cache,  probably  left  there  by  Pike,  and  one  of  the 
signal-men  proceeded  to  roast  it.  The  coffee  mill 
being  "  down  below,"  it  was  crushed  by  stones.  So 
great  are  the  resources  of  the  United  States  Govern- 
ment !  Then  it  was  announced  that  there  being  less 
than  a  quart  of  water  left,  after  our  "  guzzling  and 
muzzling,"  the  ladies  alone  could  be  served  with 
coffee.  We  glanced  round  on  the  mournful  counte- 
nances of  sick  friends  of  the  braver  and  stronger  sex, 
and  shrank  with  noble  shame  from  the  thought  of 
taking  advantage  of  them  in  such  a  dire  extremity. 
Seeing  a  clergyman  beguiling  his  sad  thoughts  by 
molding  a  ball  out  of  last  year's  snow,  gathered  near 
by,  I  timidly  offered  a  suggestion,  which  was  gra- 
ciously accepted  by  our  scientific  hosts  ;  snow  was 
quickly  procured  and  melted,  and  we  all  had  coffee. 
One  cup  was  my  only  breakfast,  but  it  was  strong,  and 
it  gave  me  marvellous  strength,  even  sufficient  to  en- 
dure the  solemn  ceremony  of  dedication,  "  all  of  which 
I  saw  and  a  part  of  which  I  was."  The  three  mini- 
sters officiated,  with  Chief  Observer  Sergeant  Boeh- 
mer,  and  the  loftiest  signal  station  of  the  world  was 


70  HOW  WE  STORMED  PIKE'S  PEAK. 

duly  christened  and  consecrated.  After  this  there 
was  another  imposing  ceremony.  A  youthful  orator, 
yet  in  short  dresses  and  long  tresses,  known  as 
"  The  Daughter  of  the  Signal  Corps,"  and  wearing 
its  badges,  standing  cap  in  hand,  read  a  little  speech 
while  presenting  to  Sergeant  Boehmer  a  "  Flag  of  our 
Union."  It  was  well  done,  considering  that  it  was 
on  such  a  Signal  fiasco,  and  an  empty  stomach. 
Sergeant  Boehmer,  profoundly  moved,  and  taken 
aback,  responded  by  reading  another  little  speech. 
It  was  a  scene  such  as  Dickens  alone  could  have  done 
justice  to.  How  he  would  have  enjoyed  it !  Our 
base  appetites  alone  prevented  us  from  enjoying  it. 
The  next  ceremony  was  the  running  up  of  the  flag 
on  the  station.  We  all  shouted  when  it  streamed 
gallantly  out  in  that  upper  sunlight  and  on  the 
fierce  free  winds  that  had  never  saluted  it  before. 
In  fact,  we  felt  not  a  little  patriotic  pride  in  behold- 
ing the  Stars  and  Stripes  where  they  could  look 
down  on  all  the  union  jacks  in  the  world.  It  was  a 
pity  we  could  not  hurrah  through  a  telephone,  and 
let  England  hear  and  blush  for  her  Signal  Corps,  if 
so  be  she  have  one. 

After  that  solemn  function  I  went  wandering 
off  to  various  points  on  the  summit,  leaping 
from  rock  to  rock  like  a  sizeable  mountain  sheep. 
I  was  stimulated  and  sustained  by  the  high,  fine  air. 


ROW  WE  STORMED  PIKE'S  PEAK.  71 

I  felt  strangely  light,  yet  with  nothing  of  the 
dizziness  or  sickness  others  complained  of.  "  That 
which  had  made  them  drunk,  had  made  me  bold." 
Yet  I  could  not  have  walked  and  clambered  about 
alone  in  that  manner  had  I  not  been  warmly  and 
suitably  dressed,  and  worn  regular  mountain  shoes, 
heavy  and  hob-nailed.  My  costume  was  not  pictur- 
esque, but  it  was  safe  and  comfortable.  I  saw  all  that 
could  be  seen  from  different  sides  of  the  great,  des- 
olate summit.  The  views  were  somewhat  veiled  in 
mist,  but  very  lovely  in  color,  and  all  the  grander 
in  outline.  The  distant  mountain  ranges  seemed 
stupendously  high,  from  the  intervening  valleys  and 
gorges  being  obscured  by  this  light  purple  mist. 
From  the  eastern  side  I  looked  down  on  our  happy 
valley,  and  saw  a  little  white  bird-cage  which  I  knew 
must  be  the  Manitou  House,  and  a  tiny  brown  nut- 
shell which,  with  swelling  breast,  I  recognized  as  my 
cottage.  When  I  returned  to  the  station  I  found 
most  of  our  party  gone,  and  the  rest  going.  Our 
friends,  the  ministers,  had  been  the  first  to  shake 
the  dust  of  the  summit  from  their  feet,  and  to  dis- 
appear down  the  trail.  We  saw  them  no  more.  I 
believe  that  they  made  excellent  time  down  from 
those  sublime  but  barren  regions,  to  a  more  goodly 
inheritance,  and  a  land  flowing  Avith  milk  and  honey. 
Even  the  observer  in  charge,  Sergeant  Boehmer,  hur- 


72  BOW  WE  STORMED  PIKE'S  PEAK, 

ried  down  the  mountain,  with  the  fair  daughter  of  the 
Signal  Corps  by  his  side,  and  its  honors  clustering 
thick  upon  him,  waving  back  his  hand  in  a  gracious, 
degaye  way  to  his  guests,  still  detained  at  his  dreary 
post.  I  urged  my  famished  friends  to  do  likewise, 
as  my  horse  had  not  come  up  from  below,  and  I  saw 
nothing  for  me  but  to  sit  there  on  my  saddle,  under 
the  flag,  and  keep  the  station,  alone.  But  they  re- 
fused to  depart  without  me,  and  one  poor  gallant 
gentleman  took  my  saddle  on  his  shoulders,  also  one 
of  my  red  blankets,  while  I  donned  the  other,  and 
so,  in  Indian  style  and  file,  we  descended, — wiser, 
sadder,  and  emptier  pilgrims  than  we  had  ascended 
that  grand  old  humbug  of  a  mountain.  About  two 
miles  down  I  met  the  faithful  Sackett,  with  my  horse, 
which  had  run  away  and  given  him  no  end  of  trouble. 
At  the  lake  we  found  the  remains  of  our  previous 
day's  lunch,  which,  in  our  contempt  for  "  common- 
doings,"  we  had  left  behind,  and  which  we  now  de- 
voured with  humble  and  thankful  hearts.  We  filed 
down  the  mountains  and  through  the  great  caiion 
with  subdued  spirits  and  chastened  countenances, 
and  reached  our  homes  and  hotels  in  good  time — 
that  is,  supper-time. 


HOW  WE  STORMED  THE  RIGI  IN  SPITE 
OF  THE  RAILWAY. 

AN  OLD    WORLD  FROLIC. 

A  YEAR  or  two  after  my  Pike's  Peak  adventure,  I 
made  one  of  a  party  of  six  ladies — Americans — who, 
on  an  August  afternoon,  set  forth  from  Pension 
Stutz,  on  Lake  Lucerne,  to  make  the  ascent  of  the 
Rigi.  Through  an  accident,  we  failed  to  reach 
Lucerne  in  time  to  take  the  boat  which  connected 
with  the  train  at  Vitznau,  and  it  seemed  for  awhile 
that  we  should  be  obliged  to  return  to  the  Pension 
we  had  left  in  such  high  spirits,  defeated,  and  with 
our  colors  drooping.  But,  fortunately,  after  much 
agonized  interrogation,  we  ascertained  that  by  going 
a  few  miles  down  the  lake,  to  Weggis,  we  could  get 
saddle  horses  and  go  up  in  the  grand  old  style,  in- 
stead of  taking  the  steep  railway,  with  its  clamps 
and  its  cogs,  by  which  the  ordinary  tourist  ascends 
the  mountain,  as  did  Jack  his  beanstalk — "  Ilitchety, 
hatchety,  up  I  go  " — a  miserable,  mechanical,  noisy, 
smoky,  prosaic  proceeding.  We  took  the  next  boat 


74  HOW  WE  STORMED  TUE  EIGI. 

and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  were  in  the  pleasant 
little  village  of  Weggis,  the  former  landing-place  of 
all  pilgrims  to  the  Rigi,  going  from  Lucerne.  Here 
we  had  supper,  took  six  saddle  horses  and  two 
guides,  and  started  out,  just  as  the  sun  was  declining. 
Almost  every  rod  of  the  way  to  the  summit — nine 
miles — was  beautiful,  and  afforded  charming  views 
of  the  lake  and  the  mountains,  and,  though  the  day 
had  been  scorching,  a  delicious  coolness  came  with 
the  long,  dreamy,  purple  mists  of  twilight.  As  we 
ascended,  we  met  groups  of  peasant  children,  driving 
goats  down  from  high  bits  of  wild  pasture-land,  and 
now  and  then  brown  peasant  women,  descending 
from  their  harvest  work  in  little  fields  of  wheat  and 
barley,  mere  nooks  and  corners,  sheltered  by  lofty 
peaks  and  fenced  in  by  chasms.  The  bells  worn  by 
the  goats  tinkled  merrily,  and  the  laughter  of  the 
children,  and  even  the  voices  of  their  elders,  sounded 
strangely  musical  in  the  clear,  still  air.  Slowly,  as 
though  humoring  our  adventure,  the  sun  had  sunk 
down  beyond  Pilatus,  and  its  light,  which,  for  a  space 
that  seemed  like  an  enchanted  time,  had  lain  on  the 
lake  like  one  broad,  heaving  sheet  of  red  gold,  was 
gathered  up  like  a  garment,  or  rolled  away  as  a 
scroll,  and  a  soft,  silvery,  tremulous  mist  took  its 
place.  Then  came  the  moon,  full-orbed  and  perfect. 
It  seemed  to  hover  for  a  while  in  the  horizon,  and 


HOW  WE  STORMED  THE  EIGI.  75 

balance  itself  on  the  great  heights,  then  launched 
itself  on  the  sky  and  went  plowing  through  mists 
and  clouds  till  it  reached  the  open  sea  of  blue, — ten- 
der and  deep.  How  pure  and  calm  and  regnant  it 
seemed,  that  night  of  nights !  We  backslid,  in 
spirit,  some  eighteen  centuries,  and  were  landed  in 
the  beautiful  old  mythologies,  ready  to  sing  paeans 
to  Luna  and  pour  libations  of  Rudesheim  on  the 
white  altar  of  Dian's  temple.  In  fact,  our  delight 
all  through  this  wonderful  moonlight  ride  amounted 
to  an  ecstasy,  an  intoxication  of  the  finer  senses. 
There  was  everything  that  could  appeal  to  the  im- 
agination, the  love  of  beauty,  and,  above  all,  to  the 
secret  passion  for  adventure  which  was  a  character- 
istic of  each  of  that  party  of  six  picked  and  kindred 
souls.  We  were  gay,  very ; — startling  the  Alpine 
echoes  with  free  American  laughter  and  snatches  of 
strange  song.  In  fact,  we  were  all  young — dear 
R,  my  life-long  friend,  and  I  the  youngest  of  all, — 
and  only  make  believe  to  chaperone  the  other  girls. 
There  was  nothing  monotonous  in  the  whole 
ascent.  Every  turn  of  the  road  gave  us  a  new  pic- 
ture, grand  or  lovely,  wild  or  weird.  Now  lay  the 
lake  just  below  us,  palpitating  in  the  moonlight. 
Now  we  saw  over  beyond  it,  and  through  dark 
mountain  gaps,  the  far,  ghostlike  peaks,  the  cold, 
awful  gleaming  of  eternal  snow.  Now  we  looked 


76  HOW  WE  STOBMED  THE  BIGL 

back  on  many-towered  Lucerne,  which  crowned  the 
head  of  the  lake  with  a  marvelously  brilliant  circle 
of  light,  half  on  shore  and  half  in  the  water.  Now 
we  passed  through  a  narrow  avenue  of  trees,  which 
scarcely  let  a  moonbeam  down  upon  us,  or  under  a 
wonderful  natural  arch  of  rocks.  Now  we  crossed 
a  trembling  bridge  high  above  the  dull  dash  of  a 
torrent,  and  now,  as  we  turned  a  rocky  point,  a 
ghostly  cascade  leaped  out  upon  us  from  a  shadowy 
gorge.  Now,  in  some  wild,  awful  spot,  we  came 
upon  a  stark,  gleaming  crucifix,  or  a  white  chapel 
invited  us  to  rest  and  repeat  aves  ;  and  now,  best  of 
all,  we  came  to  a  quaint  wayside  inn,  where  we 
could  let  our  horses  breathe,  and  get  beer  or  wine 
for  our  guides,  and  where  the  friendly,  cheery  peo- 
ple came  out  to  see  us,  to  commend  our  courage  and 
wish  us  Godspeed.  Riding  in  front  of  us  that  night, 
like  Lord  Lovell,  on  "  a  milk-white  steed,"  was  a 
gentleman  tourist,  not  of  our  party  and  not  much  of 
a  companion,  for  he  spoke  only  German,  and  was 
chary  of  that ;  but  his  horse  was  a  picturesque  ob- 
ject in  our  cavalcade.  He  dismounted  at  the  two 
first  inns,  seeming  quite  exhausted,  but  after  refresh- 
ing the  inner  man  went  on  as  far  as  the  third,  the 
Kaltbad,  where  he  remained  altogether,  giving  up 
the  Kulm.  Every  woman  of  us  pitied  his  weakness, 
and  thanked  heaven  it  had  not  made  her  such  a 


HOW  WE  STORMED  THE  RIGI.  77 

man.  The  Kaltbad  is  the  first  large  hotel  on  the 
Rigi,  an  immense  caravansery,  about  a  league  from 
the  Kulm.  As  it  came  suddenly  in  sight  it  seemed 
to  spring  from  the  desolate  mountain-side  like  a 
fairy  palace,  or  a  splendid  mirage.  It  was  all  alive 
with  light ;  gay  groups  were  strolling  up  and  down 
its  broad  esplanade  ;  gayer  people  inside  were  danc- 
ing to  delightful  music.  It  was  a  scene  of  absolute 
enchantment,  and  to  this  day  I  cannot  make  it  real. 
Here  we  rested  but  a  little  time  in  our  saddles, 
finding  ourselves  the  objects  of  much  curious  obser- 
vation ;  then  rode  on,  over  breezy  heights,  to  the 
Rigi-Staffel,  the  second  big  hostelry.  Here,  as  we 
halted  for  another  rest,  a  great  multitude  sallied  out 
to  see  us,  exclaiming  in  all  the  languages  of  Europe, 
and  especially  in  the  dialect  of  London,  "  Six  ladies 
on  horseback,  without  a  gentleman  !  "  Host,  clerk, 
waiters,  boots,  all  united  in  advising  us  to  tarry  for 
the  night,  and  to  walk  up  in  the  morning  to  see  the 
sun  rise  from  the  Kulm,  only  about  a  mile,  telling 
us  we  could  find  up  there  no  lodgings  of  any 
kind.  But  we  had  set  out  for  the  Kulm,  and  we 
would  culminate  that  night,  or  perish  in  the  attempt. 
So,  much  to  the  sorrow  of  our  guides,  we  cried  "  En 
avant !  "  and  went  on  our  steep  and  winding  way  to 
the  summit,  which  we  reached  at  10:30  p.  M.,  ending 
an  exploit  which  I  hold  was  not  equalled  in  daring 


78  SOW  WE  STORMED  THE  EIGI. 

and  dash  by  the  jolly  ascent  of  Twain  and  party— 
not  surpassed  till  a  lustrum  later,  when  the  immor- 
tal Tartarin  of  Tarascon  scaled  the  Eegina  Mon- 
tium>  solitary  and  alone.  We  found  we  had  been 
told  the  sorrowful  truth :  not  a  bed  was  to  be  had  at 
either  hotel,  for  love  or  money.  The  best  resting- 
places  we  could  get  were  some  exceedingly  slippery 
sofas  in  the  large  drawing-room  of  the  Rigi  Schrei- 
ber.  We  were  by  no  means  the  only  unfortunates, 
for  not  alone  that  drawing-room,  but  the  reading- 
room  and  restaurant  were  given  up  to  bedless 
lodgers.  The  floor  of  our  apartment  was  thickly 
spread  with  mattresses  for  ladies,  and  some  of  them 
went  regularly  to  bed,  and  said  prayers  greatly  dis- 
proportionate to  their  accommodations.  Large 
doorways,  insufficiently  draped  with  curtains,  con- 
ducted into  the  apartments  for  the  male  tourists, 
some  of  whom  wandered  in  and  out  "  at  their  own 
sweet  will,"  and  in  the  midst  of  their  perambula- 
tions I  noticed  that  one  fair  lady  coolly  and  calmly 
disrobed  herself,  and,  like  Cristobel,  "  laid  down  in 
her  loveliness."  It  was  nearly  midnight  before  our 
party  were  couche  and  addressing  ourselves  to  sleep, 
whereunto  the  day's  unusual  fatigues  more  soundly 
did  invite  us.  But  it  was  the  pursuit  of  somnolence 
under  prodigious  difficulties ;  the  place  was  stifling- 
ly  close  and  hot,  and  soon  from  the  rooms  beyond 


WE  STORMED  THE  EIGI.  79 

came  masculine  breathing  in  heavy  gusts,  and  pro- 
found polyglot  snoring.  At  last  we  slept,  it  might 
have  been  for  an  hour,  "  when  suddent,  and  peart, 
and  nigh,"  came  the  crack  and  the  spurt  of  a  match, 
and  we  all  roused  up  to  behold  an  elderly  female  in 
a  dingy  flannel  wrapper,  holding  a  lighted  candle, 
with  which  she  proceeded  to  walk  about,  threading 
her  way  in  creaky  shoes  among  the  sofas  and  mat- 
tresses in  an  aimless,  miserable,  Lady  Macbethish 
way  that  was  utterly  maddening.  Finally  she  "  put 
out  the  light "  and  went  to  her  couch,  but  again  and 
again  roused  us  all  by  the  same  unaccountable  and 
ghastly  performance.  At  a  little  after  three  o'clock 
we  heard  a  shrill  piping  railroad  whistle,  or  some- 
thing of  the  sort,  which  Lady  Macbeth  appeared  to 
take  for  the  peep  of  day,  for  she  started  up  again  and 
proceeded  to  dress,  so  as  to  be  on  hand  for  the  great 
morning  show.  That  would  be  an  enterprising  sun 
that  would  get  the  better  of  her !  As  no  more  sleep 
was  possible,  we  all  presently  rose,  donned  shawls 
and  hats,  and  sallied  out  into  the  hall,  where  the 
pilgrims  of  the  sun  were  already  beginning  to  assem- 
ble. As  the  moonlight  was  still  as  bright  as  it  is 
conceivable  for  moonlight  to  be,  it  was  ludicrous  to 
see  several  guests  come  forth  from  their  chambers 
bearing  lighted  candles,  and  as  the  morning  was 
absolutely  hot,  with  not  even  a  breath  of  air  stir- 


80  HOW  WE  STORMED  THE  RIGL 

ring,  it  was  even  more  ludicrous  to  see  others  wear- 
ing heavy  winter  wraps,  and  even  furs.  One  stout 
old  Frenchman  presented  a  picture  we  can  never 
forget,  as  he  descended  the  stairs,  wrapped,  like  an 
Indian  chief,  in  a  white  bed  blanket,  a  bright  red 
comforter  about  his  neck,  a  queer  cap  on  his  head, 
and  a  candle  in  his  hand.  Thus  accoutred  he  stalked 
out  into  the  moonlight  and  onto  the  Kulm,  to  see  the 
sun  rise.  When  we  reached  the  highest  point  there 
was  a  goodly  crowd  there,  and  before  five  o'clock 
it  numbered  700  or  800,  all  struggling  for  the  best 
places,  and  nearly  all  uncomfortably  bundled  up  in 
anticipation  of  wind  and  cold.  It  was  a  strange 
gathering  of  almost  all  peoples  and  tongues.  The 
Belvidere  was  a  small  Tower  of  Babel.  Many 
looked  pallid  and  ill  from  the  effects  of  the  heat,  or 
loss  of  sleep,  and  two  ladies  fainted  outright — one 
falling  prone  on  the  ground,  but  springing  up  again 
like  a  female  Antseus.  The  orb  of  day  seemed  an 
unconscionable  time  coming,  and  the  crowd  grew 
visibly  impatient,  till  I  half  expected  stamping  and 
cat-calls.  One  fair  young  English  lady,  evidently  a 
bride,  said  to  her  husband,  with  pretty  pettishness, 
"  Why  don't  he  come  up  ?  I'm  getting  quite  ner- 
vous. Do  you  know,  Alfred,  I  never  saw  the  sun 
rise  in  my  life  ?  "  Only  think !  the  sight  was  to  be 
as  new  to  her  as  it  was  to  Eve  on  that  first  morning 


HOW  WE  STOEMED  THE  RIGI.  81 

of  her  young  full-grown  life !  We  can  imagine  the 
awesome  delight  of  that  primeval  lady  when  she 
beheld  the  "  greater  light,"  which  she  had  seen  the 
night  before  drop  away  in  the  gorgeous  west,  leav- 
ing all  dim  and  dusky  the  solemn  aisles  of  the  gar- 
den in  which  the  angels  walked,  reappear  in  the 
east,  touching  the  purple  hills  with  splendor,  and 
reddening  the  blue  Euphrates.  Woman  has  been 
woman  from  the  first,  and  man  has  been  man,  and 
we  can  imagine  Eve  at  that  sunrise,  longing  for 
sympathy,  in  her  wonder  and  delight,  and  waking 
up  Adam ;  and  we  can  imagine  Adam,  already  blase 
of  such  things,  yawning,  and  saying  loftily,  "Ah, 
yes,  it  is  very  fine  ;  but,  child,  I  have  seen  it  all 
long  ago,  when  you  were  a  rib;  and  really,  my 
dear,  there's  nothing  in  it." 

Our  languid  daughter  of  Eve  did  not  have  to 
wait  much  longer  for  the  sun ;  he  came  at  last,  ris- 
ing over  the  Eden  of  her  love,  as  good  as  new.  At 
first  he  sent  up  scouts  of  scattering  beams ;  then  an 
advance  guard  of  serried  rays,  resplendent  as  with 
glittering  steel ;  then  he  came  himself,  majestic  and 
slow,  girt  about  with  almost  intolerable  splendors. 
As  the  moon  had  done  the  evening  before,  he  seemed 
to  pause  awhile  on  the  dark  threshold  of  the  moun- 
tain ridge,  then  strode  forward  and  took  possession 

of  the  silent,  waiting  day.    At  the  very  moment 
6 


82  HOW  WE  STORMED  THE  RIGI. 

that  he  appeared,  the  moon,  that  had  lingered  all 
through  the  semi-twilight, — "  the  substitute  that 
shines  brightly  as  the  King  until  the  King  be  nigh," 
— paled  utterly  and  dropped  out  of  sight.  By  the 
way,  the  sun's  approach  was  heralded  by  a  lugu- 
brious blast  upon  the  Alpine  horn,  a  sort  of  attenu- 
ated and  very  much  elongated  trumpet.  It  lay 
partly  on  the  ground,  writhing,  while  it  was  wrestled 
with  by  a  feeble  old  man,  whom  it  sometimes 
seemed  to  be  getting  the  better  of.  This  is  a  regu- 
lar and  immemorial  Rigi  accompaniment  to  the 
solemn  rite  of  sunrise.  After  his  valiant  perfor- 
mance was  over  the  old  trumpeter  went  around 
with  a  plate,  and  there  happened  the  most  absurd 
incident  of  the  morning.  An  elderly  English  lady, 
who  had  seemed  to  take  no  notice  of  the  horn,  and 
was  evidently  sleepy  and  out  of  sorts,  mistook  the 
purpose  of  the  little  collection,  and  burst  forth  with 
true  British  indignation.  "  What !  am  I  called 
upon  to  pay  for  seeing  the  sun  rise  on  my  own 
round  earth — the  earth  on  which  I  was  born !  I 
refuse.  It  is  an  imposition.  Go  along  with  you, 
man!" 

As  a  mere  sunrise,  I  do  not  think  this  from 
the  Rigi  is  as  fine  as  that  to  be  seen  from  Pike's 
Peak.  It  lacks,  in  the  foreground,  the  grand 
mystery  of  great  depth  and  darkness,  and  in  the 


HOW  WE  STORMED  THE  EIGI.  83 

background,  the  infinite  distance  of  the  plains. 
But  when  you  turn  your  back  on  the  sun,  you  see 
that  he  best  paints  his  glory  on  the  snowy  summits 
of  the  Bernese  Oberland,  like  a  Ceesar  writing  his 
own  Commentaries.  Those  Bernese  Alps  stand  like 
peaks  of  flame,  rosy,  golden,  effulgent — like  mighty 
altar  fires,  leaping  up,  pure  and  ardent — the  morn- 
ing offering  of  a  world  aspiring  to  God. 

As  the  sun  rises  higher,  he  lifts,  one  after  another, 
the  mist-veils  from  lake  and  valley,  till  the  vast 
circle  of  enchanting  pictures  lies  clear  before  your 
eyes.  You  look  on  a  score  of  Helvetian  battle-fields, 
on  the  map  of  old  wars,  on  the  highways  of  history. 
You  gaze  with  a  shudder  on  the  traces  of  that  awful 
land-slide  of  the  Rossberg,  which  in  five  minutes 
destroyed  as  many  villages,  and  buried  hundreds 
of  people.  It  was  a  small  day  of  judgment  to  them, 
only  that  the  rocks  and  the  mountains  uncalled  for, 
were  moved  to  fall  upon  and  hide  them.  At  ten 
o'clock  we  took  the  train  and  hitched  our  cautious 
way  down  the  mountain.  We  caught  some  fine 
views  in  the  descent,  but  not  comparable  to  the 
moonlight  pictures  of  the  ride  up.  The  Kaltbad 
had  lost  its  air  of  enchantment  during  the  night, 
and  looked  hot,  glaring,  and  prosaic.  There  is 
nothing  on  this  road  very  terrifying  to  weak 
nerves,  save  a  bridge  over  a  deep  ravine,  seemingly 


84  HOW  WE  STORMED  THE  EIGL 

slight,  but  really  strong,  and  a  tunnel  through  a 
mass  of  conglomerate  rock,  mere  pudding-stone, 
which  looks  as  though  it  might  tumble  in,  rattle 
down  upon  you,  and  stone  you  to  death  at  any 
moment.  But  you  come  through  safe  and  sound 
to  Vitznau,  where  you  take  a  boat  to  Lucerne,  or 
Fltielen — the  beginning  or  the  end  of  the  lake — as 
you  feel  inclined.  We  were  undecided,  tossed  up, 
and  tails  won. 


TWO  OLD  HEADS. 


I  SPENT  the  winter  of  1853  in  Rome,  then,  of  course, 
under  the  solemn  shadow  and  jealous  rule  of  the 
Papal  Government,  but,  in  some  respects,  a  more 
delightful  as  well  as  restful  place  of  residence  than 
now.  I  was  with  Miss  Charlotte  Cushman — one  of 
a  party  of  six  of  her  intimate  friends,  English  and 
Americans,  occupying  a  large  sunny  appartmento 
on  the  Corso.  It  is  a  golden  memory.  Miss  Cush- 
man, then  in  the  height  of  her  fame  and  the  pleni- 
tude of  her  dramatic  genius,  soon  drew  around  her 
a  brilliant  artistic  and  social  set,  of  many  minds 
and  nationalities — aesthetic  Englishman,  ecstatic 
Frenchmen,  free-hearted  and  free-spoken  Americans, 
Italians,  of  all  cultured  classes,  even  the  clerical, 
Papal  officials,  dissembling  Mazzinians  conspiring 
discreetly,  distinguished  artists  of  every  sort ; — in 
brief,  a  wonderful  variety  of  clever  men  and  women. 
Miss  Cushman's  singing  of  English  ballads  made  a 


86  TWO  OLD  HEADS. 

great  impression  in  Rome,  and  even  on  Romans. 
It  was  something  so  new  and  peculiar,  and  the 
intense  dramatic  feeling  took  such  hold  on  their 
hearts,  and  drew  them  into  the  rare  electrical  at- 
mosphere of  her  genius,  in  spite  of  the  "  stony 
limits  "  of  our  "  cold,  hard  language."  She  was  also 
admirable  as  a  mimic  and  story-teller,  entertaining 
in  many  ways,  so  it  was  that,  lovers  of  music  and 
the  drama  as  we  all  were,  we  contented  ourselves 
with  very  little  theatre-going  that  winter.  In 
fact,  I  remember  but  one  night  of  grand  opera — 
that  of  the  debut  of  "  la  piccolo,  Piccolomini" — after- 
wards heard  and  much  heard  of,  in  America.  She 
was  then  very  young,  and  really  shy  and  modest, — 
delicately  pretty,  but  developed  neither  in  voice  nor 
figure, — having  few  if  any  of  the  coquettish  airs  and 
graces  which  some  years  later  went  so  far  with  her 
audiences, — charming  elderly  critics  and  firing  sus- 
ceptible young  gentlemen  with  a  brief  madness  that 
broke  out  in  bouquets,  and,  in  some  aggravated 
cases,  in  bracelets  and  diamonds.  Yet  there  was  in 
her  singing  a  certain  childlike  freshness  peculiarly 
propitiating,  while  the  fact  of  her  having  been  of 
noble  extraction  (a  Cardinal's  grand-niece),  invested 
her  with  something  of  a  romantic  interest,  espe- 
cially for  republicans. 
But  so  faint  was  the  impression  left  on  my  mind 


TWO  OLD  HEADS.  87 

by  her  singing  and  acting  that  I  cannot  now  recall 
the  opera  in  which  she  appeared.  I  remember  the 
evening  chiefly  as  the  occasion  of  my  first  sight  of  a 
remarkable  personage,  of  whom  I  had  heard  much 
in  Rome.  This  was  the  Prince  Corsini — rich,  eccen- 
tric, witty  and  wicked,  and  most  unconscionably 
old. 

He  was  the  possessor  of  one  of  the  grandest  pal- 
aces of  Rome — that  in  which  Christina  of  Sweden 
resided  for  a  time,  and  in  which  she  died.  Her 
magnificent  death-chamber  is  one  of  the  show  rooms. 
One  cannot  but  wonder  if  the  stormy  and  imperious 
spirit  of  the  man-queen  strides  up  and  down  it  now 
and  then,  and  if  she  was  not  haunted  in  her  last 
gloomy  days  by  the  bloody  apparition  of  poor  Mon- 
aldeschi,  "  crying  in  the  night." 

But  of  the  Prince.  Dumas  thus  speaks  of  him  as 
he  knew  him  at  Florence,  where  both  were  guests 
of  King  Jerome  Bonaparte  : 

"  Prince  Corsini  was  the  grand-nephew  of  Pope 
Lorenso  Corsini  Clement  Twelfth.  He  was  an  old 
man  of  seventy,  very  fond  of  dress,  and  painted  his 
face  just  as  our  lorettes  do.  He  was  to  be  met  every 
night  in  the  streets  of  Florence,  after  the  receptions 
and  assemblies  of  the  evening  were  ended,  dressed 
in  white  duck  or  some  light-colored  cloth,  a  small 
blue  coat  with  gilt  buttons,  a  ribbon  around  his 


88  TWO  OLD  HEADS. 

neck  and  an  enormous  nosegay  in  his  waistcoat. 
When  he  met  any  acquaintance,  he  drew  down  his 
straw  hat  toward  the  passer,  as  if  he  desired  to  con- 
ceal his  face ;  but  he  hoped,  if  the  latter  met  him 
the  next  day,  he  would  be  guilty  of  the  amiable  in- 
discretion of  saying,  '  Where  were  you  going,  past 
one  o'clock,  last  night,  with  a  nosegay  in  your 
waistcoat,  Prince  ?  Ah !  I  recognized  you ! ' 

"  The  Prince  would  deny  that  he  was  the  man  : 
he  would  shake  his  head  and  play  the  comedy  of  the 
discreet  man.  It  was  a  curious  study." 

When  I  saw  him  at  the  opera  he  was  said  to  be 
nearly  ninety,  yet  by  the  aid  of  art  and  artifice  he 
still  kept  off  most  of  the  signs  of  age  and  feebleness. 
He  was  most  wonderfully  "  made  up  " — not  only 
with  false  locks  of  youthful  brown,  but  actually,  it 
was  said,  with  false  eyebrows.  He  was  rouged  and 
stayed  and  padded,  while  his  costume  was  of  the 
most  faultless  elegance. 

He  clung  to  the  world  and  its  pleasures  with  the 
desperate  clutch  of  a  voluptuary.  In  the  heart, 
which  should  have  grown  still  and  cool  in  the  winter 
of  a  serene  old  age,  "  frosty  but  kindly,"  it  was  said 
the  midsummer  passions  of  a  profligate  manhood 
yet  seethed  and  fumed. 

Yet,  with  all  his  senile  folly  and  ghastly  gayety, 
he  was  a  man  of  ability  and  courtly  accomplishments. 


TWO  OLD  HEADS.  89 

His  society  had,  it  seemed,  a  peculiar  charm  for  the 
young,  especially  young  men — an  evil  charm,  for  he 
won  their  allegiance  chiefly  by  ministering  to  their 
weaknesses  and  passions,  alluring  them  by  the  most 
refined  sensual  pleasures. 

In  his  grand  palace  in  the  Trastevere,  and  in  his 
charming  villa  on  the  Janiculum,  it  was  whispered 
the  wild  revels  and  mysterious  orgies  of  the  Roman 
Empire  were  revived,  "with  all  the  modern  im- 
provements." 

Wherever  went  the  Prince,  he  had  his  guard  or 
train  of  young  men,  mostly  taken  from  the  impover- 
ished nobility  of  Rome,  at  that  time  about  the  most 
worthless  set  of  fellows  in  the  world.  He  entered 
his  box  at  the  "  Apollo  "  leaning  on  the  arm  of  one  of 
these,  thus  saving  himself  the  use  of  a  cane.  An- 
other gazed  about  the  house,  spying  out  all  the 
beautiful  faces  and  pretty  toilettes,  thus  sparing 
the  failing  eyesight  of  his  Highness,  who,  only  as  he 
was  directed,  leveled  his  lorgnette.  Others  gathered 
about  him  with  flatteries  and  scandals,  bon-mots 
and  bon-bons. 

He  reminded  one  of  an  old  Indian  chief  surrounded 
by  his  young  braves,  except  that  "  the  gray  barba- 
rian "  educates  his  followers  for  pursuits  at  least 
manly  and  valorous,  while  the  Prince  educated  all 
manhood  out  of  his  guardia  nobile.  He  was,  indeed, 


90  TWO  OLD  HEADS. 

more  like  a  human  vampire,  living  by  and  on  them, 
draining  them  of  all  the  juices  of  youth — strength, 
faith,  aspiration,  honor — the  very  life  of  life.  The 
mere  atmosphere  of  an  existence  so  graceless  and  god- 
less, so  dead  in  its  best  powers  and  possibilities, 
must  have  been  something  vitiating,  enervating, 
stifling. 

This  smiling,  sneering  old  man  in  his  prolonged 
chase  after  pleasure  seemed  to  be  trying  to  outrun 
his  two  old  unpropitiable  enemies — he  of  the  scythe, 
who  stalks  straight  on  through  an  open  field,  and  he 
of  the  dart,  who  is  given  to  short  cuts  and  ambus- 
cades ;  but  he  must  have  had  an  uncomfortable  con- 
sciousness that  they  were  gaining  on  him  all  the 
while.  His  smile  looked  forced  and  weary — his 
face,  newly  painted  and  thatched,  suggested  the 
white,  bare  death's-head :  it  even  seemed  that  the 
fresh  bouquet  in  his  button-hole  must  give  out  a 
mortuary  odor. 

I  have  never  heard  how  he  died ;  suddenly,  per- 
haps, dropping  down  in  some  scene  of  Sybaritic 
pleasure,  which  he  could  only  taste  by  proxy,  pour- 
ing out  the  rich  heady  wine  which  he  could  no 
longer  quaff  ;  or  he  may  have  sunk  away  in  an 
after-dinner  sleep,  if,  preternaturally  wakeful  and 
wary  as  he  was,  he  ever  dared  to  sleep ;  or  he  may 
have  died  decorously  in  his  bed  with  the  velvet 


TWO  OLD  HEADS.  91 

and  gold  hangings,  after  having  duly  settled  his 
worldly  and  spiritual  affairs,  and  being  girded  and 
comforted  by  the  securities  and  consolations  of  the 
Church.  But  I  doubt  if  any  save  priests  and  hire- 
lings were  with  that  old,  old  man  at  the  last  dread 
hour — if  any  lips  were  pressed  on  the  withered 
hand  which  so  rarely  had  been  stretched  forth  in 
love  or  helping — if  any  eyes  wept  over  the  pallid, 
pitiable  figure,  once  so  gay  and  princely.  Those 
jovial  young  companions,  his  noble  guard,  his  sing- 
ing-girls and  his  dancing  houris,  his  flatterers  and 
his  jesters,  all  probably  made  sudden  exits  before 
the  closing  scene  of  that  merry  tragedy,  just  as  the 
night  fell  on  that  long,  mad  holiday,  his  wasted, 
perverted  and  perverting  life. 

Ah,  when  old  Age  and  Death  met  in  the  silent 
sick  chamber  of  the  Prince,  and  together  faced  him 
down,  what  a  merciless  stripping  off  of  shams  was 
there! — the  glossy  locks,  the  dark  eyebrows,  the 
rouge,  the  paddings,  the  stays,  and  those  ghastlier 
mockeries  of  youth,  his  gayety  and  gallantry ! 
What  a  collapse  there  must  have  been  into  his 
coffin! 


THE  CHEVALIER. 


AMONG  our  visitors  in  Rome  during  that  winter 
of  1853,  was  an  elderly  German  gentleman,  of  good 
family  and  much  refinement  and  culture,  but  of  a 
peculiarly  quaint  appearance,  and  with  a  manner  of 
childlike  simplicity  and  kindliness.  This  was  the 
Hanoverian  Minister,  Mr.  Kestner,  best  known  in 
society  as  "  The  Chevalier."  To  those  who  knew 
our  friend  well,  he  unfolded  a  character  of  rare 
purity  and  freshness,  of  a  genuine  old-fashioned, 
chevalier  type ;  but  to  strangers,  the  smiling,  dapper 
little  minister  was  only  interesting  from  some 
romantic  antecedents  and  associations.  He  was 
the  son  of  the  Charlotte  and  Albert  of  Goethe's 
Werther — the  son  of  noble  parents,  strangely  mis- 
represented by  that  fascinating,  but  morbid,  ro- 
mance, whose  immense  popularity  ninety  years  ago, 
and  whose  influence  on  the  life  and  literature  of 
Europe,  are  so  difficult  for  us  at  this  day  to  under- 
stand. It  was  doubtless  the  subtle  power,  the 
ineffable  element  of  genius,  which  redeemed  its  un- 


THE  CHEVALIER.  93 

wholesome  sentimentalism,  gave  a  melancholy 
grace  to  unholy  passion,  and  to  disloyalty  an  almost 
heroic  pathos.  But  this  can  scarcely  account  for 
the  immediate  and  powerful  hold  which,  not  the 
story  alone,  but  the  spirit  and  philosophy  of  the 
story,  took  on  the  heart  and  imagination  of  all 
classes  of  readers.  It  must  be  that  the  book  an- 
swered to  a  strange  want,  a  fierce  craving  of  the 
age.  The  soil  must  have  been  ready  for  the  seed. 
True,  the  romance  precipitated  many  a  domestic 
tragedy,  and  made  suicide  epidemic;  but  the  ele- 
ments and  conditions  were  all  there,  in  the  social 
life  of  that  seething  and  stormful  age.  Goethe's 
biographer  says  of  it :  "  Perhaps  there  was  never  a 
fiction  that  so  startled  and  enraptured  the  world. 
Men  of  all  kinds  and  classes  were  moved  by  it.  It 
was  the  companion  of  Napoleon  in  Egypt ;  it  pene- 
trated into  China." 

The  true  story  of  Werther,  Albert  and  Charlotte, 
remained  almost  unknown  beyond  the  circle  of  their 
personal  friends  for  eighty  years,  until  the  appear- 
ance of  Mr.  Lewes'  Life  of  Goethe;  though,  in- 
deed, Mrs.  Kemble,  in  her  Year  of  Consolation, 
gave  some  account  of  it,  received  from  the  Chev- 
alier, whom  she  knew  in  Rome,  and  calls  her  "  charm- 
ing and  excellent  friend." 

Werther,  apparently  the  simplest  of  all  romances  in 


94  TIIE  CHEVALIER. 

construction,  is  really  a  curious  piece  of  biographi- 
cal mosaic.  Goethe  himself  furnished  but  a  portion 
of  the  traits,  sentiments  and  experiences  of  the  hero 
from  his  own  life ;  from  another  real  character — 
weaker,  more  melancholy  and  more  unfortunate — 
he  filled  out  the  portrait  and  borrowed  the  tragedy. 
Charlotte  is  also  two  in  one  (herself  and  Madame 

II ),  while  Albert  is  only  half  himself— a  good 

beginning,  a  "  lame  and  impotent  conclusion." 
Lewes  describes  Kestner  at  twenty-four  as  a  quiet, 
orderly,  cultivated  man,  possessing  great  magna- 
nimity, and  a  dignity  which  is  in  nowise  represent- 
ed in  the  Albert  of  Werther.  The  correspondence 
shows  him  to  have  been  something  more — a  rarely 
noble,  generous  man,  loving  and  loyal;  as  far  re- 
moved as  can  be  imagined  from  the  hard,  jealous, 
sullen  Albert  of  the  last  half  of  the  romance.  He 
was  the  dear  friend  of  Goethe,  whom  he  loved  with 
passionate  enthusiasm,  feeling  all  the  charm  of  his 
wondrous  genius  and  beauty,  and  foreseeing  his 
greatness. 

Charlotte  Buff  of  Wetzlar,  was  betrothed  to  Kest- 
ner before  she  met  his  brilliant  friend,  the  young 
Dr  Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe,  poet  and  philoso- 
pher. The  scene  of  their  first  meeting  was  accu- 
rately given  in  the  novel— little  brothers  and  sisters, 
bread  and  butter,  and  all : 


THE  CHEVALIER.  95 

"Wertherhad  a  love  for  Charlotte 

Such  as  words  could  never  utter, 
Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her  ; 
She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter." 

Goethe  certainly  fell  in  love  with  Charlotte  after 
his  poet  fashion ;  and  little  wonder,  for  she  was 
doubtless  a  charming  creature, — bright,  joyous, 
sympathetic,  and  not  too  intellectual :  but  Goethe's 
love  was  evidently  a  harmless,  if  not  quite  an  in- 
nocent sentiment.  It  was  held  in  check  by  his  strong 
will  and  his  sense  of  honor,  and  even  more,  per- 
haps, by  Lotte's  steadfast  loyalty  and  serene  dignity. 
It  was  yet  far  from  a  Platonic  attachment,  calm 
and  cool  and  wise ;  it  was  warm  and  tender  and 
foolish  enough,  but  impassioned  rather  than  pas- 
sionate— ideal  and  imaginative,  a  luxury  of  sensi- 
bility, and  fancy.  The  woman  was  not  the  need  of 
his  great  life,  but  to  love  her  was  the  necessity  of 
his  genius.  The  man  could  forego  her,  but  the 
artist  made  royal  claim  to  as  much  of  her  as  he  re- 
quired for  his  great  plan  ;  for  as  he  said,  "  Werther 
must,  must  be." 

The  three  friends,  a  wonderful  triad — lived  on  in 
the  closest  intimacy  for  some  two  years,  Goethe's 
affection  bringing  no  disquietude  to  Kestner,  no 
shadow  of  reproach  upon  his  Lotte.  The  poet-lover 
even  furnished  the  wedding-ring,  and  afterward 


96  THE  CHEVALIER. 

offered  to  stand  godfather  for  their  first  boy,  who 
was  named  for  him. 

About  the  time  of  little  Wolfgang's  birth,  Goethe 
wrote  to  his  mother,  "  I  will  soon  send  you  a  friend 
who  has  much  resemblance  to  me,  and  I  hope  you 
will  receive  him  well :  he  is  named  Werther." 

Kestner  says  :  "  As  soon  as  the  book  was  printed 
he  sent  us  a  copy  and  thought  we  should  fall  into 
raptures  with  it." 

But  he  had  wofully  miscalculated.  The  hapless 
pair  felt  their  faithful  affection  for  their  friend, 
their  love  for  each  other,  the  privacy  of  their  home, 
all  profaned.  Charlotte  was  inexpressibly  grieved — 
Albert  was  outraged.  So,  in  acknowledging  the 
book,  they  wrote  to  their  great  friend  in  a  strain  of 
sorrowful  surprise  and  reproach,  which  first  revealed 
to  him  the  astonishing  blunder  he  had  made.  Be- 
fore this  he  had  but  waited  for  their  glad  approval 
to  crown  his  fame,  as  the  wreath  for  the  intoxica- 
ting wine-cup  of  his  success.  He  was  exulting  in 
the  royal  immortality  he  had  bestowed  upon  them 
in  return  for  their  humble  love  and  fealty.  Had  he 
not  made  his  faithful  Albert  a  marked  and  envied 
man  as  the  possessor  of  that  peerless  heroine  of 
romance  ?  Had  he  not  embalmed  Charlotte's  amiable 
name  in  the  tears  and  sighs  of  admiring  thousands  ? 
But  the  perverse  Kestner  saw  little  glory  in  being 


THE  CHEVALIER.  97 

identified  with  that  "miserable  creature  of  an  Al- 
bert," the  husband  of  a  woman  who  looks  with 
sentimental  indulgence,  with  tender  smiles  and  na'ive 
blandishments,  on  the  passion  of  a  false  friend,  and 
for  whom  that  false  friend  sighs  and  poetizes  and 
maddens  till  he  blows  his  unhappy  secret  and  his 
brains  out  together.  The  prudish  Charlotte  felt 
that  those  sighs  and  tears  of  voluptuous  pity  and 
passion  would  breathe  on  her  pure  fame  a  nameless 
taint  that  must  ever  cling  to  it — not  embalming, 
but  withering. 

For  his  part,  Goethe  showed  how  truly  great  he 
was  by  taking  to  heart  their  sad  complaint,  acknowl- 
edging his  error,  and  humbly  and  passionately  en- 
treating their  pardon.  And  they  forgave  him,  and 
tried  to  forget  it,  but  the  world  would  not  let  them. 
They  lived  ever  after  in  the  glare  of  their  question- 
able glory.  The  privacy  and  dignity  of  the  old  life 
never  returned.  The  faith  of  the  constant  husband 
was  not  as  contagious  as  the  morbid  romance  of  the 
novel. 

Poor  Madame  Kestner,  a  modest,  sensible  little 
woman,  saw  her  double,  so  like,  yet  so  cruelly  unlike, 
everywhere,  in  every  language  and  in  every  form. 
She  was  sung  and  painted  and  carved,  and  baked 
in  china,  and  wrought  into  tapestry,  and  stitched  into 
embroideries.  She  stood  in  perpetual  mourning  at 


98  THE  CHEVALIER. 

the  tomb  of  Werther,  in  doleful  prints :  she  simpered 
in  her  ball-dress  on  tea  trays,  and  swung  on  sign- 
boards cutting  bread  and  butter  for  hungry  travellers. 
She  must  have  felt  like  a  poor  little  bird  spitted  alive 
on  the  diamond-pointed  pen  of  the  great  novelist. 

The  loyal  friendship  between  the  three  never 
wholly  died  out,  but  the  old  intimacy  was  not  re- 
newed. Indeed,  Madame  Kestner  never  again  met 
Goethe  till  she  was  in  her  sixtieth  year,  a  widow 
and  the  mother  of  twelve  children,  when  she  visited 
him  at  Weimar.  What  a  meeting  that  must  have 
been! 

Charlotte  has  been  described  as  a  very  charming 
old  lady,  lively  and  gracious ;  so  the  majestic  old 
poet  had  not  to  blush  as  he  recalled  the  admiration 
of  his  youth. 

Our  friend  the  Chevalier  had  in  his  possession 
nearly  all  of  the  letters  pertaining  to  the  publication 
of  Werther,  as  well  as  much  of  the  preceding  and 
succeeding  correspondence  between  Goethe  and  his 
parents.  Mr.  Lewes  has  made  free  use  of  these  in- 
teresting letters  ;  and  it  is  pleasant  to  know,  even  at 
this  late  day,  that  the  real  Charlotte  was  not  only 
an  admirable  daughter,  sister  and  friend,  but  a  loving 
wife  and  a  noble  mother;  that  she  was  always 
worthy  to  cut  bread  and  butter  for  innocent  chil- 
dren ;  that  she  had  none  of  the  weak  sensibility  and 


THE  CHEVALIER,  99 

sentimentality  of  the  heroine  of  Werther,  who  so 
daintily  dallies  with  sin  and  demurely  plays  with 
fire,  and  whose  rashness  is  only  equalled  by  her 
cowardice. 

The  Chevalier  had  a  profound  and  tender  respect 
for  the  memory  of  his  father,  the  noblest  of  all  the  early 
friends  of  Goethe ;  while  of  his  mother,  the  sweetest 
of  all  the  loves  of  the  great  poet,  he  spoke  to  familiar 
friends  more  and  more  frequently  and  fondly  as  he 
grew  old,  and  felt  himself  nearing  her  day  by  day. 
Whenever  I  saw  him  there  arose  in  my  mind  a  fair 
vision  of  a  lovely  German  maiden  in  a  "  plain  white 
gown,  with  pale  pink  ribbons,"  either  with  a  "  loaf 
in  her  hand  "  and  the  little  ones  around  her  at  home, 
or  Joyously  dancing  an  allemande  with  Werther  at 
the  ball.  Yet  as  I  looked  on  his  pale,  withered  face, 
I  found  it  difficult  to  realize  that  it  had  been  kissed 
over  and  over  by  the  "  sweet  lips "  about  which 
Werther  raves,  saying,  "  Could  I  live  one  moment 
on  those  lips,  I  would  contentedly  die  the  next."  It 
was  difficult  to  think  of  this  gray-haired  old  diplomat 
as  a  flaxen-headed  little  lad,  taking  real  bread  and 
butter  from  those  benignant  hands  which  have  dis- 
pensed to  multitudes  the  immortal  ideal  food  from  a 
miraculous  loaf  that  never  grows  less. 

The  Chevalier  was  a  favorite  among  the  young, 
though  he  had  some  peculiarities  at  which  they 


100  THE  CHEVALIER. 

would  smile.  He  was  given  to  airing  his  English 
vocabulary  in  literary  circles,  and  it  would  not  very 
well  bear  the  exposure.  The  delicious  unconscious- 
ness with  which  he  ventured  beyond  his  depth  in 
political  or  artistic  discussions,  and  floundered  about 
in  a  sea  of  verbal  troubles,  gave  rise  to  many  a  quiet 
laugh  in  English-Roman  society.  Young  artists 
were  especially  drawn  toward  him,  for  he  had  all  a 
cultivated  German's  love  of  Art :  his  heart  was  un- 
worn and  his  imagination  still  tinged  with  the 
golden  enthusiasms  of  youth.  His  influence  over 
these  young  men  seemed  always  for  good ;  he  cer- 
tainly drew  them  by  no  unworthy  charm,  held  them 
by  no  selfish  interest,  for  he  was  not  rich,  and  his 
habits  of  life  were  quiet  and  simple.  They  treated 
him  and  spoke  of  him  almost  as  one  of  their  fel- 
lows; they  even  played  off  upon  him  harmless 
little  jokes;  but  that  they  had  for  him  genuine 
affection  and  respect  was  proved  when  in  the 
bright,  sudden  spring,  the  time  when  all  Italy 
longs  to  be  abroad,  the  lonely  old  Chevalier  was 
taken  ill.  Then  these  fine  young  fellows  stayed 
faithfully  beside  him.  He  had  been  for  some  time 
failing,  so  the  end  was  not  long  in  coming.  He  did 
not  dread  it,  or  shrink  from  it.  He  bowed  to  the  old, 
old  law  of  nature  :  he  accepted  the  inevitable,  not 
with  the  cold  stoicism  of  the  philosopher,  nor  yet 


THE  CHEVALIER.  101 

merely  with  the  unquestioning  submission  of  a  child, 
but  with  the  dignity  of  a  brave  Christian  gentleman. 

One  morning  he  was  raised  by  gentle  hands  to 
look  out  for  the  last  time  over  the  hills  and  gardens, 
palaces  and  ruins,  of  that  grand  old  city.  Then, 
doubtless,  his  thoughts  passed  far  away,  over  that 
lovely  alien  clime,  to  the  dear  Fatherland,  to  the  old 
home — to  the  still  churchyard  in  Wetzlar,  perhaps, 
where  Charlotte  and  Albert  sleep  side  by  side.  It 
may  be  that  he  felt  that  beloved  father  and  mother, 
gifted  with  a  better  immortality  than  erring  earthly 
genius  can  bestow,  near  him  then — they  again  young, 
and  he  so  old ! 

At  the  last  his  courageous  unselfishness,  his  deli- 
cate considerateness,  were  most  touchingly  shown. 
After  taking  leave  of  his  "  dear  boys,"  one  by  one, 
with  loving  words  and  gentle  advisings,  after  giving 
to  them  kind  messages  for  all  his  good  friends  in 
Rome,  he  said.  "  Now,  my  dear  young  gentlemen, 
I  know  it  is  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  see  an  old  man 
die :  will  you  do  me  the  kindness  to  step  into  my 
study  and  remain  there  for  half  an  hour? — then 
you  may  return.  Adieu !  adieu ! " 

They  did  as  he  desired:  they  sat,  quite  silent, 
watching  the  clock  on  the  mantel  as  it  ticked  off 
those  sad  minutes,  during  which  no  sound  came 
from  the  chamber  of  the  dying  man.  When  at  last 


102  THE  CHEVALIEE. 

they  rose  and  softly  re-entered  that  room,  they  saw 
the  slender,  familiar  form  extended,  perfectly 
straight,  the  white  hands  clasped  on  the  breast,  the 
kindly  eyes  closed.  The  Chevalier  was  dead ! 


THE  VINDICATION  OF  ITALIA  DONATI. 


IN  Italy,  if  a  married  woman  in  society,  young 
and  fair,  anomalously  set  free  by  that  solemn  sacra- 
ment which  purports  to  bind  her  to  one  only  love 
and  loyalty,  really  desires  to  be  true  and  pure,  and 
to  keep  herself  "  unspotted  from  the  world,"  she  has 
little  support  from  the  faith  of  those  about  her. 
She  is  expected  rather,  to  betray  amiable  weaknesses, 
to  have  charming  caprices — to  be,  hi  fact,  light,  if  not 
disloyal,  in  the  worst  sense — to  betray  first,  or  last, 
by  compromising  indiscretion  at  least,  her  husband's 
trust,  if  he  is  weak  enough  to  repose  any  in  her. 
Nobody,  except  perhaps  her  mother,  believes  in  her 
absolute  incorruptible  "  onestd, " — honesty.  The 
very  priest  who  christened,  confirmed  and  married 
her,  never  fails  to  angle  in  the  confessional  for  the 
always  suspected  peccato.  I  speak  advisedly  when 
I  say  it  is  very  difficult  for  any  Italian  man  of  the 
world  to  believe  that  any  Italian  signora,  youthful, 
handsome  and  amiable  enough  to  be  admired  and 


104     THE  VINDICATION  OF  ITALIA  DON  ATI. 

courted,  or  that  any  signorina,  pretty,  poor  and  un- 
protected, can  long  remain  virtuous. 

The  popular  Italian  writer,  Callenga,  in  his  late 
work,  "  L'ltalia,  Present  and  Future,"  says  :  "  The 
scepticism  of  the  Italians  in  regard  to  the  honor  of 
woman,  is  perhaps  the  worst  trait  in  the  national 
character." 

So  universal  is  this  ugly  scepticism  that  a  slan- 
dered woman,  however  innocent,  may  well  despair 
of  vindication.  I  was  convinced  of  this  hy  a  start- 
ling tragedy  which  occurred  during  my  late  resi- 
dence in  Italy,  and  so  interested  me  that  I  preserved 
the  full  detailed  accounts,  which  I  will  try  to  con- 
dense, thinking  they  tell  a  story  passing  strange  and 
"  wondrous  pitiful." 

Italia  Donati  was  a  young  girl  of  a  good,  but  greatly 
impoverished  family,  in  the  small  town  of  Cintolese, 
in  the  commune  of  Monsummano,  near  Pistoia. 
This  poor  family  consisted  of  a  widowed  mother,  a 
grandfather,  two  brothers  and  two  sisters,  the  wife 
and  children  of  the  elder  brother,  and  two  children 
of  the  second,  absent  in  America.  All  these  gente 
formed  one  household,  and  the  house  was  not  ex- 
actly a  mansion.  Raised  above  the  peasantry  by 
some  education  and  certain  refined  tastes,  this  family 
yet  toiled  and  suffered  like  the  humblest. 

Being  ambitious  and  studious,  Italia,  in  spite  of 


THE  VINDICATION  OF  ITALIA  DON  ATI.     105 

her  heavy  domestic  duties,  was  early  prepared  by  a 
kind  and  able  master  to  teach,  and  considered  her- 
self fortunate  in  being  appointed  maestra,  or  mis- 
tress, of  the  municipal  school  of  Porciano,  a  rude 
little  mountain  town,  where  her  services  were  re- 
warded by  full  forty-five  lire — about  nine  dollars  a 
month !  With  this  sum  she  not  only  maintained 
herself,  but  two  of  her  little  nephews,  and  also 
assisted  her  mother.  How  she  did  it  is  one  of  the 
sacred,  sublime  mysteries  of  the  loving  poor. 
Widely  separated  for  the  first  time  from  her  family, 
and  surrounded  by  unsympathetic  strangers,  she 
was  still  content,  almost  happy,  in  her  work  for  the 
first  few  months — then  cruel  troubles  came  upon 
her.  Unfortunately,  as  it  proved,  Italia  was  very 
beautiful  in  face  and  singularly  symmetrical  in  form, 
with  a  delicacy,  grace  and  dignity  very  unusual  in 
her  class,  and  with  a  quiet  reserve  of  manner  not 
calculated  to  render  her  popular  among  a  gross  and 
jealous  people.  Yet  she  had  admirers — too  many, 
too  persistent  and  unscrupulous.  Among  them  was 
an  old  sinner  of  a  Sindaco,  or  Mayor — one  Raffaello 
Torrigiani — a  rustic  Don  Giovanni,  who,  as  the 
municipal  school  was  on  his  property  and  under  his 
special  direction,  was  inclined  to  abuse  his  power 
toward  any  maestro,  who  pleased  his  fancy.  In  this 
case  not  only  he,  but  a  profligate  son  and  two 


106    THE  VINDICATION  OF  ITALIA  DON  ATI. 

nephews,  attempted  to  pay  court  to  the  bewildered 
young  teacher,  each  in  his  turn  boasting  of  being 
the  favored  lover  of  "  la  bettct  maestrina"  There 
came  also  to  woo,  not  honorably,  the  Brigadiere  of 
the  Carabiniere  of  the  Commune — a  burly  braggart. 
These  brave  men  being,  one  and  all,  proudly  repulsed, 
set  themselves  to  punish  and  persecute  the  presump- 
tuous girl.  They  spread  through  the  town  and  re- 
gion round  about  the  most  atrocious  calumnies, 
which  it  seems  were  eagerly  taken  up  and  repeated 
by  the  coarse  women  of  Porciano,  especially  the 
village  girls,  jealous  from  the  first  of  the  beauty 
and  distinction  of  the  stranger,  whom  they  named 
"  la  /Superba"  though  the  poor  Italia  was  uniformly 
kind  and  courteous  to  all.  Her  elder  pupils  at  length 
rebelled  against  her  authority,  answering  the  least 
admonition  and  reproof  with  low  taunts  and  sneers. 
Only  the  children,  whose  love  she  had  won,  clung  to 
her.  Yet  sometimes  the  youngest  proved  innocent 
torturers,  repeating  coarse  epithets  they  had  heard 
applied  to  her  in  their  homes,  or  on  the  street.  As 
the  persecution  grew  and  raged,  some  of  the  most 
valiant  of  these  children  formed  a  little  body-guard 
and  strove  to  protect  her  from  insult  when  she  ven- 
tured to  walk  abroad.  Anonymous  letters,  contain- 
ing vile  charges,  came  to  her  by  post  or  were  thrust 
under  her  door.  After  nearly  three  years  of  bitter 


THE  VINDICATION  OF  ITALIA  DON  ATI.    107 

trial  and  patient  endurance  her  situation  became 
intolerable.  She  could  not  resign  and  go  home  in 
disgrace  to  be  a  burden  to  an  already  overburdened 
family — a  family  singularly  proud  of  an  untarnished 
name,  honor  being  their  sole  luxury — so  she  humbly 
petitioned  to  be  given  another  school,  but  was  told 
she  could  only  have  that  of  a  town  so  near  to  her 
present  place  of  torment  that  the  miserable  slanders 
had  already  reached  it,  as  was  proved  by  an  anony- 
mous missive  warning  her  not  to  come,  saying : 
"Cecina  will  not  take  the  leavings  of  Porciano." 
Then  she  fell  ill  and  was  obliged  to  call  in  a  physi- 
cian. On  this  illness,  caused  as  much  by  sternly 
suppressed  weeping  through  the  day  as  by  the  sleep- 
less agony  of  her  nights,  was  founded  a  new  calumny. 
She  was  accused  of  a  desperate  self-inflicted  injury 
— of  a  crime — and  the  medical  man  not  hearing  of, 
or  not  taking  the  trouble  to  contradict  the  story,  it 
spread,  and  some  kind  neighbor — there  are  always 
such — brought  it  to  Italia,  telling  her  it  was  the 
theme  of  gossips,  male  and  female,  everywhere,  and 
that  it  had  even  been  vehemently  discussed  in  the 
Municipal  Council.  Driven  to  bay,  if  ever  a  hunted 
creature  was,  poor  Italia  saw  that  further  struggle 
was  utterly  hopeless.  But  with  despair  came  a  stern 
resolve.  This  last  was  a  calumny  which,  from  its 
very  nature,  could  not  be  lived  down.  Through 


108     THE  VINDICATION  OF  ITALIA  DON  ATI. 

death  alone  could  she  prove  it  to  be  a  calumny.  At 
least,  so  she  believed,  for  she  was  young,  ignorant, 
morbidly  sensitive  and  modest,  and  without  power- 
ful friends,  or  wise  advisers.  Honor,  family  honor, 
which  must  be  vindicated  at  any  cost,  seemed  to 
say  to  her,  as  Virginius  to  Virginia :  "  And  now,  my 
own  dear  little  girl,  there  is  no  way  but  this  !  " 

There  is  above  Porciano  a  little  mountain  stream 
flowing  through  a  gloomy  gorge.  In  the  darkest, 
dreariest  part  of  this  gorge  is  a  deep  pool,  shadowed 
by  dense  foliage,  weeds  and  brambles — a  lonely, 
weird,  unsightly  spot.  On  the  last  day  of  May,  a 
passing  peasant  noticed  the  unhappy  maestra  stand- 
ing by  that  pool,  and,  though  looking  distressed, 
idly  dropping  pebbles  into  the  water,  as  though 
sounding  it.  The  next  morning,  early,  she  tested 
the  murky  depth.  A  contadina  coming  up  the  steep 
path  saw,  fluttering  on  the  parapet,  a  scarlet  grem- 
biale,  or  apron.  This  she  took  up  and  recognized  as 
the  property  of  "  the  poor  maestra,  who  was  always 
so  sad."  Then,  obeying  a  fearful  impulse,  she  bent 
over  the  wall,  and  amid  the  deep  shadows  discovered 
something  floating  in  the  dark  basin — a  slender, 
girlish  form,  circling  in  a  sort  of  slow  whirlpool — a 
piteous  sight,  in  its  rest  and  unrest,  with  its  wan 
face  upturned,  as  though  hi  a  last  appeal.  The 
frightened  woman  ran  to  give  the  alarm,  and  soon 


TUE  VINDICATION  OF  ITALIA  DON  ATI.    109 

all  that  misfortune,  inhumanity  and  death  had  left 
of  Italia  Donati  was  borne  back  to  Porciano.  In  the 
pocket  of  her  grembiale  was  found  a  paper  directing 
the  authorities  where  to  find  keys  to  her  room  and 
desk,  and  concluding  with  this  solemn  charge :  "  Let 
my  body  be  left  at  the  Tribunale,  in  order  that  a 
skilful  medical  examination  may  be  made,  which  I 
call  for,  because  I  am  innocent  of  the  shameful 
charges  made  against  me.  I  pray  all  good  people  to 
pity  and  pardon  the  poor,  unhappy  Italia  Donati." 

In  her  desk  were  found  papers  giving  a  calm,  clear 
statement  of  the  origin  of  those  cruel  calumnies,  and 
naming  their  authors.  There  was  a  letter  of  fare- 
well to  her  mother,  and  one  to  her  brother.  The 
latter  only  was  published.  In  it  she  repeated  her 
solemn  charge  in  regard  to  a  post-mortem,  which 
alone  could  vindicate  her  honor,  saying  :  "  It  is  for 
this  motive  I  die." 

I  do  not  believe  there  is  in  any  language  a  more 
noble  and  pathetic  letter  of  final  farewell  than  this. 
While  breathing  a  profound  sense  of  honor  and 
purity,  a  lofty  pride  and  dignity,  it  yet  betrays  the 
sharp  agony  of  self-immolation — the  yearning,  exqui- 
site tenderness  of  a  breaking  heart.  The  poor  girl 
gave  this  "  dearest  brother "  some  directions  as  to 
the  disposal  of  her  body  "  after  justification."  She 
wished  him,  if  he  could  do  so,  "  without  too  much 


110     THE  VINDICATION  OF  ITALIA  DON  ATI. 

sacrifice,"  to  have  it  removed  to  the  Campo  Santo  of 
Cintolese,  but  if  he  must  leave  it  in  the  place  where 
she  had  suffered  so  much  wrong,  she  enjoined  him 
to  have  her  vindication  carved  on  her  head-stone. 
She  desired  no  funeral  services,  only  a  mass  for  the  re- 
pose of  her  "  perturbed  spirit,"  and  willed  that  there 
should  accompany  her  to  the  grave  only  a  priest  or 
two,  and  "  the  dear  little  boys  and  girls,  my  pupils 
— innocent,  as  I  myself  am.  I  wish  that  the  young 
girls  who  hated  and  defamed  me  in  life  may  not 
come  to  scoff  at  me  on  my  way  to  the  tomb."  Then 
followed  a  modest  bequest — a  few  pennies,  to  be 
distributed  among  the  children  who  should  follow 
her  coffin.  The  letter  closed  with  a  passionate 
outburst  of  filial  and  sisterly  love,  tender  messages, 
and  prayers  for  pardon  for  her  fatal  act.  As  I  read 
these  now,  I  seem  to  see  the  lovely,  lonely  girl,  who 
had  planned  to  die  in  the  morning,  writing  in  her 
poor  little  room  in  the  school  building.  I  seem  to 
hear  in  the  breathless,  summer  midnight,  her  deso- 
late sobs — even  the  fall  of  tears  on  her  paper. 

Italians,  who  are  nothing  if  not  romantic,  see  the 
grand  passion  in  every  tragedy,  and  there  was  at 
once  a  rumor  that  the  suicide  was  betrothed,  and 
had  feared  the  effect  on  her  lover  of  the  slanders, 
which  sickened  for  her  the  sweet  spring  air  and 
hissed  along  its  flowery  paths,  like  so  many  ser- 


THE  VINDICATION  OF  ITALIA  DON  ATI.     HI 

pents  ;  but  it  was  not  so.    Italia  loved  only  honor. 

The  supreme  last  wish  of  ihemaestra  was  obeyed  ; 
an  autopsy  took  place,  and  unimpeachable  medical 
authority  attested  the  absolute  innocence  and 
maidenly  purity  of  the  subject,  by  which  formal  re- 
port a  large  part  of  the  men  and  nearly  all  of  the 
women  of  Porciano  stood  convicted  of  cruel  slan- 
der and  infamous  persecution.  None  of  the  guilty 
dared  appear  at  the  burial  of  their  victim,  which 
took  place  in  the  evening  of  June  2d.  No  young 
girls  were  present ;  only  the  priests,  some  members 
of  the  Misericordia,  and  Italia's  little  pupils,  who 
preceded  the  coffin,  weeping,  and  laid  on  her  grave 
garlands  of  roses  and  bunches  of  wild  flowers, 
gathered  near  the  scene  of  her  death. 

The  story  of  Italia  Donati  was  given  to  the  world 
by  the  journals  of  Pistoia,  Lucca,  Florence  and 
Milan,  and  soon  all  Italy  was  profoundly  moved  to 
pity,  admiration  and  wonder  over  the  sombre 
heroism  of  this  "  martyr  to  honor,"  who  in  her  ex- 
tremity had  evoked  the  championship  of  Death. 
Indignation  against  her  brutal  persecutors  raged 
like  a  torrent.  A  Milan  journal,  the  Corriere-della- 
Sera,  started  a  popular  subscription  to  obtain  the 
means  for  carrying  out  the  touching  wish  of  Italia, 
for  the  transfer  of  her  body  to  Cintolese,  and  also 
for  the  placing  over  it  a  vindicatory  stone.  This 


112     THE  VINDICATION  OF  ITALIA  DON  ATI. 

appeal  was  so  generously  responded  to  that  within 
the  month  a  beautiful  though  modest  shaft  of  black 
marble,  lettered  in  gold,  was  made  in  Milan  and  con- 
veyed to  Cintolese,  and  the  removal  of  the  body  was 
also  accomplished.  Owing  to  the  fact  that  the  dis- 
tance, some  twenty  or  thirty  miles,  between  Por- 
ciano  and  Cintolese  had  to  be  traversed  entirely  by 
carriages,  and  for  the  most  part  over  fearfully 
steep  and  rough  roads,  the  exhumation  was  made 
at  night,  by  torchlight.  Italia,  clad  in  her  festa- 
gown,  of  red  stuff,  and  found  in  a  wonderful  state 
of  preservation — "miraculous,"  her  poor  towns- 
people said — was  tenderly  lifted  from  a  rude  coffin 
of  poplar  wood  and  laid  in  one  of  zinc,  then  rev- 
erently borne  to  the  hearse,  preceded  by  the  old 
parish  priest  of  Cintolese.  Everything  was  done 
by  the  townspeople  of  the  maestro, /  not  a  man  of 
Porciano  was  allowed  to  lift  a  finger — least  of  all 
the  priest  of  the  village,  who  had,  while  knowing 
her  innocence,  been  shamefully  derelict  in  his  duty 
toward  his  friendless  parishioner. 

Just  at  dawn,  the  most  remarkable  funeral  pro- 
cession ever  seen  in  Italy  started  from  that  wretched, 
squalid,  mountain  cemetery,  and  passed  through 
mourning  communes,  and  vast  crowds  of  excited, 
weeping,  praying  peasants  and  townspeople,  through 
a  forest  of  banners  and  emblems,  and  through  a 


THE  VINDICATION  OF  ITALIA  DON  ATI.     113 

rain  of  roses ;  growing  by  accretions  of  educa- 
tional, clerical  and  municipal  deputations  to  im- 
mense proportions,  till  it  reached  at  night  the 
parish  church,  and  the  flowery,  shadowy  burying 
ground  of  Cintolese.  It  was  truly  an  imposing,  a 
marvelous  demonstration  in  which  all  classes,  from 
the  humblest  peasant  to  the  proudest  noble  joined. 
Great  ladies  came,  some  from  a  long  distance,  in 
their  carriages  and  costumes  of  state,  to  do  honor 
to  honor.  At  Lamporecchio,  the  first  large  town 
reached,  the  streets  were  crowded  and  the  sur- 
rounding hills  covered  with  people.  Here  a  great 
number  of  young  school-girls,  selected  for  their 
beauty,  robed  in  white  and  wearing  white  veils  and 
wreaths,  surrounded  the  hearse  and  literally  heaped 
the  coffin  with  white  lilies  and  roses,  while  the 
military  band  of  the  town  played  a  funeral  march. 
From  this  point  to  Cintolese,  "  the  cloud  of  wit- 
nesses" grew  more  and  more  dense,  till  it  was 
estimated  that  fully  20,000  had  come  out  to  see  the 
astounding  honors  paid  to  the  memory  of  a  poor 
daughter  of  the  people.  It  was  more  than  once 
necessary  for  the  military  escort  to  force  a  way 
through  the  crowd  for  the  hearse,  which  moved 
slowly,  shaking  off  flowers,  to  be  eagerly  caught  up 
and  piously  treasured.  At  the  last  stage,  the 
straggling  procession  was  consolidated  and  moved 


114     THE  VINDICATION  OF  ITALIA  DON  ATI. 

in  solemn  order  to  the  church  and  cemetery  of 
Cintolese.  A  band  playing  a  requiem  went  before 
the  funeral  car — one  great  mass  of  flowers.  The 
six  pall-bearers  were  all  dignitaries — municipal  or 
scholastic.  After  them  came  the  family  and  near 
friends  of  the  maestra,  then  many  children,  and  a 
hundred  young  girls,  all  in  white,  bearing  wax 
tapers.  Then  came  deputies  from  two  communes, 
many  schoolmasters  and  mistresses;  then  more 
deputations  and  societies,  then  carriages  of  all 
styles,  ages  and  conditions,  then  the  great  multi- 
tude of  pedestrians,  mostly  peasants,  all  wide-eyed 
with  wonder.  On  all  sides  were  heard  the  favorite 
exclamation  of  this  primitive  people :  "  Oh,  Jesu 
e  Maria!" 

Addresses  were  delivered  over  the  hearse  in  the 
grave-yard ;  the  most  touching  of  which  was  that 
of  Italia's  old  master,  given  with  tears,  and  calling 
forth  sobs,  and  now  and  then  an  imprecation,  as  he 
spoke  of  his  dear  pupil,  so  cruelly  "  driven  to  de- 
spair and  death,  in  the  flower  of  her  years,  when  life 
should  have  been  a  smile  and  a  hope." 

At  last  poor  Italia  was  laid  to  rest — real,  last- 
ing rest — and  the  monument  raised  by  public 
subscription,  and  attesting  the  pity  and  respect 
of  a  thousand  hearts  and  the  full  vindication  of 
her  fame,  placed  over  her.  The  Italians  are 


THE  VINDICATION  OF  ITALIA  DON  ATI.    115 

not  like  us.  After  a  grand  funeral  demonstration 
they  really  put  up  their  monuments — are  not  con- 
tent with  the  parade  and  talk  of  a  day.  Certainly, 
public  interest  in  my  heroine,  an  austere,  old-fash- 
ioned heroine,  did  not  die  out  in  Italy  with  that 
atoning  demonstration.  The  subscriptions  went  on, 
augmented  by  the  sale  of  the  photographs  of  the 
beautiful  girl,  till  a  sum  sufficient  to  secure  her 
widowed  mother  from  want  and  to  greatly  aid 
other  members  of  her  family,  was  raised  and 
securely  placed.  So,  not  even  in  a  worldly  sense, 
did  the  poor  martyr — or  fanatic,  if  any  shall  so  con- 
sider her — die  in  vain. 

The  evidently  deep  impression  made  on  the  minds 
of  young  Italians  by  the  heroism  and  sad  fate  of 
Italia  Donati  cheered  me  greatly.  After  all — I  said 
their  scepticism  is  not  profound  or  ineradicable. 
Though  they  looked  at  each  other  in  wonder,  as 
asking,  "  Have  we  Lucretias  among  us  ?  "  I  doubted 
not  that  each  young  man  believed  in  and  reverenced 
his  individual  mother,  and  trusted  in  his  exceptional 
sisters  not  yet  out  of  the  convent.  Yet  it  struck 
me  as  sadly  significant  that  so  many  Italians,  de- 
vout worshipers  of  the  blessed  Virgin,  should  be 
overwhelmed  with  astonishment  at  finding  that  the 
noblest  womanly  virtue  of  Pagan  Rome  could  exist 
in  the  heart  of  Christian  Italy. 


GREAT  BURIAL  PLACES,  AND  GREAT 
GRAVES  IN  LONDON. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  is  the  first  shrine  toward 
which  all  good  Americans  wend  their  pious  way. 
I  found  it  little  changed  from  the  time  of  my  first 
visit.  What  is  a  quarter  of  a  century  to  that  Methu- 
selah of  minsters  ? 

Coming  back  to  the  temple  of  our  father's  faith, 
to  the  ancient  monuments  of  our  glorious  dead, 
looking  into  the  solemn  arches  still  dim  with  the 
morning  twilight  of  our  history,  I  felt  like  one  of 
the  "  lost  sheep  of  the  house  of  Israel,"  returned  to 
the  old  fold. 

This  time,  I  did  not  waste  my  time  over  Tudors, 
Plantagenets,  Stuarts,  and  such  like  potentates,  but 
walked  directly  to  the  Poet's  Corner,  and  in  a  brief 
moment  was  standing  on  the  very  slab  which  covers 
the  grave  of  Charles  Dickens.  It  is  a  most  unob- 


GREAT  BURIAL  PLACES.  117 

trusive  stone,  bearing  only  his  name,  and  the  date 
of  his  birth  and  death.  I  had  come  that  morning 
from  Tavistock  Square,  where  I  had  gazed  wistfully 
at  the  house  in  which,  on  my  first  visit  to  London, 
I  had  seen  Mr.  Dickens — young,  happy,  brilliant — 
surrounded  by  his  loving  family  and  troops  of  loyal 
friends,  and  it  all  seemed  so  recent  that  the  bright 
scene  almost  effaced  from  my  memory  the  later 
picture  of  Charles  Dickens  in  America,  so  sadly 
changed — looking  so  worn  and  overstrained,  yet  so 
strangely  restless — so  resolutely  and  preternaturally 
active — alive  in  every  nerve  and  fibre  of  body  and 
brain,  to  receive  and  give  out — to  enjoy  and  to 
suffer.  So  it  seemed  to  me  as  I  stood  there,  that  he 
had  gone  before  his  prime,  in  the  morning  splendor 
of  his  fame,  and  I  could  not  be  reconciled  to  his 
lying  there  in  the  sombre  twilight  which  better 
befits  the  soberness  of  age,  and  the  pomp  and  ex- 
clusiveness  of  what  is  called  noble  birth.  It  is  a 
grand  thing,  doubtless,  to  be  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  but  it  is  a  dreary  sort  of  isolation  in  death, 
for  a  social,  kindly  man  like  Dickens.  No  friend 
can  come  to  keep  him  company ;  no  child  may  be 
laid  at  his  side.  lie  loved  light  and  warmth  and 
color ;  all  cheerful  sights  and  sounds.  Change  was 
necessary  to  his  alert  spirit,  and  he  should  have  been 
laid  in  some  pleasant  open  burial-ground  in  or  near 


118  GREAT  BURIAL  PLACES. 

the  great  city,  with  the  sounds  and  movements  of 
every-day  life  about  him.  That  was  the  life  he 
loved  to  paint.  He  never  was  at  home  with  lords 
and  ladies.  He  has  gone  into  magnificent  banish- 
ment here,  where  the  perpetual  tramp  of  strange 
feet,  coming  and  going,  is  like  the  ebb  and  flow  of  a 
sea  across  the  granite  which  shuts  him  down  amid 
unkindred  dust,  where  no  faintest  influence  of  the 
sun,  no  intimations  of  the  changing  season,  can 
come.  But  they  say  his  coffin  was  heaped  high  with 
flowers.  Midsummer  went  down  with  him  into  the 
grave,  and  was  hid  away  with  him  in  fragrant  dark- 
ness there.  And  on  each  anniversary  of  his  death 
there  are  placed  on  that  cold,  gray  slab  the  sweetest 
and  brightest  flowers  of  this  festal  month — crosses 
of  white  lilies  and  roses,  "pansies  for  thought," 
"  rosemary  for  remembrance,"  and  always  a  peculiar 
offering  from  some  unknown  hand — a  wreath  of 
scarlet  geraniums,  looking  in  that  shadowy  corner 
like  flowering  flame,  the  very  expression  of  passion- 
ate love  and  sorrow. 

St.  Paul's  seemed  always  less  to  me  like  a  religious 
edifice  than  the  temple  of  England's  naval  and 
military  glory,  grandly  housing  as  it  does  the  ashes 
of  her  greatest  sailor  and  soldier — Nelson  and  "Wel- 
lington. England  has  here  done  her  best  in  mag- 
nificent monuments  to  eternize  the  memory  of  those 


GREAT  BURIAL  PLACES.  119 

Titanic  heroes,  who  fortunately  lived  and  fought 
before  the  era  of  Krupp  guns  and  nitro-glycerine. 
In  the  same  gloomy  crypt  is  a  wonderful  gathering 
of  her  great  painters — among  them  Reynolds,  Land- 
seer  and  Turner.  Landseer  should  have  been  buried 
in  the  Highlands,  where  deer  and  the  hounds  could 
sweep  by  his  grave ;  and  Turner  has  no  business 
where  sea  and  storm,  sunsets  and  sunrises  are  not. 
This  vast  Protestant  cathedral  at  first  scarce  im- 
presses one  with  more  than  a  sense  of  hugeness. 
It  is  comparatively  cold  and  bare  and  empty.  With 
all  its  grandeur  of  proportion,  it  is  essentially  a 
human  structure.  Its  grandest  feature,  the  dome, 
was  modeled  after  a  mighty  heathen  type,  the  Pan- 
theon. Titanic  strength  heaved  at  these  pillars — 
skilled  artisans,  not  inspired  artists,  rounded  these 
lofty  arches.  It  lacks  the  atmosphere  of  antique 
consecration.  In  conception  and  execution  it  was  the 
work  of  one  man,  and  he  died  but  yesterday.  The 
Abbey  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  been  built,  even 
by  the  princes  and  priests  whose  names  it  perpetu- 
ates. It  was  the  work  of  Christianity  itself — it 
grew  with  the  advance  of  Christian  civilization.  It 
was  the  stone  chronicle  of  the  ages,  while  yet  religion 
was  the  soul  of  human  government,  while  miracles 
and  martyrdoms  were  possible,  and  God  had  not 
been  reasoned  and  resolved  out  of  His  universe. 


120  GEE  A  T  B  UBIAL  PL  A  CE8. 

Those  majestic  arches,  the  marvelous  carved  roofs, 
pillars,  and  portals,  and  screens,  and  choir,  are 
prayers,  thanksgivings,  anthems,  and  aspirations 
taking  form  in  stone,  while  in  the  stained  windows 
the  old  heathen  sun  has  for  centuries  had  his  morn- 
ing splendors  and  evening  glories  converted  into 
saintly  ecstasies  and  adorations.  All  these  old  min- 
sters and  cathedrals  seem  to  me  to  be  haunted  by 
the  soul  of  the  old  faith.  I  fancy  a  faint  odor  of 
incense  hangs  round  them  still,  and  with  it  an  in- 
fluence, mysterious  and  mournful,  yet  sweet  and 
tender  and  intensely  human — the  memory  of  the 
banished  Madonna  and  her  Child.  After  all,  the 
things  we  wonder  at  most  worshipfully  belonged  to 
the  old  unreformed  Babylonian  institution,  which, 
whatever  its  sins,  never  exacted  petty  tribute  of  the 
stranger  within  its  gates.  I  think  I  can  understand 
the  feeling  of  English  Romanists  when  they  see  the 
Protestant  Establishment  trading  in  the  dust  of 
Catholic  saints,  kings,  and  heroes,  while  she  sits 
complacently  like  a  cuckoo  in  the  magnificent  nests 
of  the  proud  old  mother  bird,  which  once  brooded 
over  the  whole  Christian  world. 

Even  Nelson's  sarcophagus  of  black  marble  is 
said  to  have  been  intended  for  a  more  pious  papist- 
ical use — to  enclose  the  remains  of  proud  old  Cardi- 
nal Wolsey  himself. 


GREAT  BURIAL  PLACES.  121 

The  Prince  Albert  Memorial  Chapel  at  Windsor 
is  also  a  confiscation  from  Wolsey.  It  is  rich  and 
grand,  but  in  religious  and  poetic  impressiveness 
it  is  not,  of  course,  comparable  to  St.  George's 
Chapel — that  solemn,  bannered  theatre  of  English 
royal  and  knightly  history.  I  ought  to  be  ashamed 
to  own  it,  perhaps,  but  I  find  that  I  have  not  out- 
lived the  romantic  enthusiasm — the  passionate  in- 
terest— of  my  youth,  for  and  in  places  like  this, — 
types  and  memorials  of  a  great  people.  My  realiz- 
ation is  as  swift  and  ardent  and  complete  as  ever. 
Without  failure  or  postponement,  the  great  tragedies 
of  history,  with  their  great  actors,  "  dead  and 
turned  to  clay,"  come  storming,  or  slowly  sweeping, 
on  to  the  scene.  The  splendid  pageants  of  the  past 
live  on  the  instant  before  me.  The  silent  music  of 
marriage  hymn  or  funeral  dirge  throbs  in  the  air. 
I  found  that  on  that  day  I  could  not  stand,  without 
a  thrill  of  pity,  or  a  shudder  of  horror,  over  the 
vault  where  lies  poor  Princess  Charlotte,  with  her 
kingdom-bought  baby  on  her  breast,  and  Charles 
I.,  with  his  head  by  his  side,  and  Henry  VIII.,  by 
his  dear  wife  Jane,  who  died  in  time  to  save 
her  head.  Here,  beside  his  good,  homely  spouse, 
Charlotte,  sleeps  soundly,  after  all  his  trouble, 
George  III.,  in  the  midst  of  his  children.  Only  two 
willed  not  to  be  let  down  to  stately  slumber  in  that 


122  GEE  AT  BURIAL  PLACES. 

moldy  royal  realm — that  silent  underground  court- 
circle — but  chose  to  be  laid  beneath  the  turf,  among 
trees  and  flowers  and  sunshine,  in  the  people's 
burying-ground  of  Kensal  Green.  These  were  the 
genial,  liberal-minded,  and  kind-hearted  Duke  of 
Sussex,  and  his  devoted  sister,  the  Princess  Sophia. 
The  last  royal  interment  at  Windsor  was  that  of 
George  of  Cumberland,  the  blind  and  deposed  King 
of  Hanover,  grandson  of  a  blinder  George  and  a 
more  unkinged  King.  I  think  it  was  while  George 
III.  yet  lived,  if  he  did  not  rule,  that  the  two  young 
Princes  of  Cumberland  were  one  day  entertaining 
some  guests — Eton  boys — at  Windsor,  and  were 
strolling  about  the  gardens,  when  an  attendant 
observed  Prince  George,  a  handsome,  light-hearted 
fellow,  playing  in  a  careless  way  with  a  long  silken 
purse,  ornamented  on  each  end  with  a  golden  acorn. 
This  he  was  flirting  back  and  forth  before  his  face, 
so  near  his  eyes  that  the  faithful  servant  warned 
him  that  he  might  strike  them  with  it.  The  merry 
Prince  laughed  and  kept  on  with  his  play,  but 
presently  gave  a  cry  of  pain.  He  had  struck  his 
eye  with  one  of  the  acorns,  sure  enough !  Yet  he 
made  light  of  the  hurt,  only  applying  a  little  water 
from  a  fountain  near  by.  For  a  day  or  two  he 
would  have  nothing  more  done ;  then  the  other  eye 
became  affected,  and  the  "  medical  man  "  was  called 
in,  who,  of  course,  did  his  best ;  but  it  was  too  late. 


GEE  AT  BURIAL  PLACES.  123 

All  the  King's  doctors  could  not  undo  the  work  of 
that  little  golden  acorn.  Acute  inflammation  set 
in,  with  torture  and  terror  unspeakable,  which, 
after  a  while,  yielded  to  the  melancholy  ease  of  utter 
blindness  and  the  total  eclipse  of  life. 

Shortly  after  the  unification  of  Germany  this 
brave,  blind  old  fighter,  one  of  the  royal  chess-men 
which  Bismarck  had  swept  off  the  board,  came  over 
for  a  brief  visit  to  his  royal  kinsfolk,  and  the  next 
year  he  came  to  stay. 

It  was  a  more  pathetic  than  imposing  funeral. 
Meekly  enough  royalty  confessed  to  mortality. 
There  was  no  lying  in  state,  and  little  pomp  and 
circumstance — none  of  a  public  character.  Within 
the  chapel,  the  great  vault  yawned  for  a  few 
moments  to  take  in  a  little  light,  a  little  music,  a 
few  flowers,  that  sheeted  and  coffined  and  richly- 
palled  clay,  the  sound  of  the  empty  titles  and 
dignities  of  the  dead  Prince,  proclaimed  on  the 
brink  of  the  grave,— a  pompous  introduction  to  the 
grim  monarch  of  that  moldering  realm,  and  all  was 
over.  Strong  night  repelled  the  timid  invasion  of 
day,  more  solemn  silence  overwhelmed  the  solemn 
dirge  and  dead  march,  the  brightness  of  flowers 
became  blackness,  their  sweetness  fainted  in  the 
mold.  For  that  Prince  without  a  principality, 
banished  from  the  kingdom  of  light  and  beauty 
these  many  years,  for  that  sad  father  who  had 


124  GEE  AT  BUEIAL  PLACES. 

never  beheld  the  faces  of  his  children,  that  stricken 
old  man,  weary  of  groping,  the  valley  of  the  shadow 
of  death  could  have  had  no  terrors  ;  only  a  little 
deeper  night  has  settled  on  his  sightless  eyes. 

After  Windsor  and  St.  Paul's  and  the  Abbey, 
where  is  regally  enshrined  so  much  precious  dust 
of  what  was  once  the  grandeur  and  power  and  grace 
of  imperial  England,  we  have  sought  out  other 
burial-places,  in  the  open,  common  air,  amid  the 
rush  and  roar  of  London,  but  where  rest  men  and 
women  who  are  kings  and  queens  for  all  time, 
crowned  by  genius  and  immortal  fame,  anointed  by 
the  blessings  of  humanity.  One  visit  was  to  Old 
Paddington  Church-yard,  a  pilgrimage  to  the  grave 
of  Sid  dons,  the  incomparable,  unapproachable  queen 
of  English  tragedy.  We  found  it,  after  some  in- 
quiry and  search,  in  the  most  desolate  part  of  that 
desolate  old  yard,  immediately  on  the  walk,  without 
a  tree  or  a  plant  or  a  bit  of  turf  near  it.  A  plain, 
broad  marble  slab,  surrounded  by  an  iron  railing, 
covers  the  grave,  bearing  the  inscription : 

"  SACKED    TO    THE  MEMORY   OP 

SARAH    SIDDONS 

WHO  DEPARTED  THIS  LIFE  JUNE  8TH,  1831,  IN  THE  78TH 
TEAB  OF  HER  AGE. 

'  Blessed  are  the  dead  which  die  in  the  Lord' " 


GREAT  BURIAL  PLACES.  125 

Nothing  more ;  nothing  significant  or  character- 
istic of  that  pure  and  noble  life  of  artistic  toil,  of 
that  beautiful,  peerless  woman ;  nothing  poetic  or 
stately.  She  might  have  been  a  costermonger's 
wife  for  all  that  ugly  stone  and  its  unsightly  sur- 
roundings would  tell.  I  could  not  feel  reconciled 
to  such  a  sepulture  for  her.  She  should  have 
stretched  out  her  whole  royal  length  in  the  rich  dust 
of  Westminster  Abbey,  or  she  should  have  been 
taken  to  Stratford,  and  laid  near  her  great  master, 
or  should  sleep  in  that  beautiful  campo  santo  of 
artists  and  poets,  Kensal  Green,  under  the  shade  of 
noble  trees,  with  all  the  sweet  English  flowers 
which  Shakespeare  named,  chief  among  them  royal 
white  and  red  roses,  blooming  about  her  grave. 

Neither  could  I  be  reconciled  to  the  neglected, 
almost  forgotten,  air,  the  untidiness  and  general 
desolateness  of  that  old  "God's  acre"  of  the  Dis- 
senters, Bunhill  (or  Bone-hill)  Fields,  wherein  sleeps 
many  an  unsceptred  prince  of  the  mind,  many  an 
uncrosiered  bishop  of  the  soul,  many  an  "elect 
lady  "  of  the  Lord.  It  is  a  melancholy,  as  well  as 
a  grim,  lonesome,  and  deserted-looking  spot.  It 
seems  that  after  all  the  saints  that  have  been  laid  here 
to  await  a  glorious  resurrection,  after  all  the  prayers 
and  hymns  that  have  gone  to  sanctify  the  ground  and 
sweeten  the  air,  the  horror  and  taint  of  the  old 


126  GEEAT  BURIAL  PLACES. 

plague-pit  still  hangs  about  the  place.  Yet,  one  has 
none  of  these  unpleasant  fancies  when  standing  by 
an  altar-tomb  in  the  midst  of  the  ground,  whereon 
lies  a  quaint  figure  of  deep,  sweet  repose — the 
figure  of  John  Bunyan.  He  has  laid  down  forever 
his  burden  of  earthly  weakness  and  trouble  and 
toil,  and  rests  in  God,  his  infinite  thirst  after  holiness 
slaked  at  the  fountain-head  of  divine  grace,  his 
infinite  sadness  over  mortal  sin  and  sorrow  com- 
forted by  the  fulness  of  wisdom  and  faith. 

Next  in  interest  to  all  good  Christian  souls  is  the 
tomb  of  dear  old  Isaac  Watts.  Standing  beside  it, 
and  blessing  the  good  man's  memory,  one  realizes,  as 
never  before  perhaps,  how  vast  has  been  his  holy 
and  benign  influence,  and  how  unworn  and  un- 
wasted  it  yet  is.  As  England's  "  morning  drum  "  has 
been  said  to  beat  round  the  world,  the  devout  soul 
of  this  her  son  has  girdled  the  earth,  with  strains  of 
praise  and  prayer  and  thanksgiving,  morning  and 
night,  for  a  hundred  years.  What  a  blessed  immor- 
tality on  earth  is  that. 

A  modest  pyramidal  monument  which  marks  the 
grave  of  Daniel  De  Foe  was  raised  by  six-penny 
subscriptions  from  the  boys  of  England.  The  boys 
of  America  should  have  had  a  hand  in  that,  and  the 
girls  too — young  and  old.  Measured  by  the  love  and 
gratitude  we  all  bear  his  memory,  it  should  have 


GREAT  BURIAL  PLACES.  127 

been  a  colossal,  magnificent  monument.  Who  of  us 
is  not  his  debtor  still  for  far-gone  but  unforgetable 
hours  of  enchantment,  when  in  wild  winter  nights, 
perhaps,  we  were  rapt  away  to  that  wondrous  sum- 
mer isle  in  the  far  seas — for  hours  of  stolen  de- 
light, such  as — Sunday  afternoon  readings,  in  dusty 
garrets,  or  musty  hay-mows,  or  up  in  apple-trees,  or 
down  under  bridges.  Here  also  are  altar-tombs  to 
the  memory  of  certain  untitled  princes — if  true 
natural  princeliness  can  be  bequeathed — the  sons  of 
Oliver  Cromwell,  the  man  whose  blood  was  thicker 
and  richer  with  kingliness  and  courage  than  that 
of  any  monarch  who  has  sat  on  the  English 
throne  since  Richard  the  Lion-hearted.  Near  the 
grave  of  that  other  Richard,  with  another  sort  of  a 
heart,  lies  the  divine,  Dr.  Thomas  Goodwin,  who 
pronounced  upon  him  the  blessing  of  the  God  of 
the  Puritans  when  he  was  proclaimed  Protector  of 
the  Commonwealth.  That  benediction  did  not 
hold.  The  strong  angel  of  victory  only  blesses 
those  who  have  strength  to  wrestle  with  him.  It 
moves  one  more  to  think  of  this  good  man  as 
praying  by  the  death-bed  of  the  father,  than  as  bless- 
ing the  son ;  to  think  how  fervently  on  that  porten- 
tous and  tempestuous  night,  in  September,  234  years 
ago,  that  solemn  voice  of  pleading  and  intercession 
rose  amid  the  sobs  of  sorrow  and  the  wailings  of 


128  GEE  AT  BUEIAL  PLACES. 

the  storm,  amid  mortal  dismay  and  wild  elemental 
strife,  battling  its  way  toward  heaven,  like  some 
strong  bird,  or  like  the  great  heroic,  absolute  soul 
it  preceded  for  a  little  space. 

Not  far  from  the  Cromwell  tombs  is  a  simple 
headstone,  which  marks  the  resting-place  of  that 
sweet,  godly  woman,  Susannah  Wesley,  the  beloved 
mother  of  Charles  and  John.  About  this  grave, 
somewhat  more  than  a  century  ago,  a  solemn  crowd 
was  gathered,  committing  to  the  dust,  with  many 
tears,  that  blessed  mother  in  Israel ;  and  then  her 
great  son,  John,  pale  with  watching  and  grief,  but 
with  a  marvelous,  tender  light — the  light  of  her  new 
blessedness — in  his  eyes,  spoke  strong,  impressive 
words  of  Christian  triumph  and  resignation,  through 
which  trembled  filial  yearnings  and  regrets,  and  lov- 
ing memories,  no  less  holy,  and  gracious,  and  manly. 

In  this  most  unpicturesque  ground  lie  also  the 
painters,  Blake  and  Stothard,  not  seeming  at  all  at 
home;  and  here  in  the  midst  of  Nonconformist 
heroes  and  heroines,  rests  a  certain  Dame  Mary 
Page,  whose  curious  epitaph  informs  us  that  she 
was  a  martyr  to  the  dropsy,  having  been  tapped  sixty- 
six  times  in  as  many  months,  and  had  drawn  away  no 
less  than  two  hundred  and  forty  gallons  of  water. 
"  never  repining  at  her  case,  or  dreading  the  opera- 
tion." 


GEE  A  T  B  UEIAL  PL  A  CES.  1 29 

One  of  us  was  wicked  enough  to  remark  that  the 
pathetic  epitaph  of  poor  Keats  should  have  been 
borrowed  for  Dame  Page.  It  is  strange  how  open 
one's  mind  is  to  intimations  of  the  ludicrous  in  such 
solemn  places. 

I  remember  we  laughed  at  a  direction  referring 
to  a  new  gate,  but  chalked  on  a  tombstone — "  This 
way  out." 

Just  across  the  City  Road,  opposite  Bunhill  Fields, 
is  the  little  Wesleyan  chapel,  in  the  narrow  yard  of 
which  is  buried  John  Wesley.  It  moves  one  pro- 
foundly to  stand  beside  that  most  unpretending 
tomb,  near  the  thronged  highway — lacking  utterly 
the  silence  and  seclusion  provided  for  their  last  rest- 
ing places  by  the  great  ones  of  the  earth — with  Lon- 
don traffic  roaring  past,  and  rumbling  underneath  it 
— and  then  to  think  how  the  fervent,  constant,  brave, 
yet  meek  spirit,  which  once  informed  the  dust  be- 
low, founded  so  vast  a  commonwealth  of  faith,  kin- 
dled so  mighty  a  flame  of  religious  freedom  and  re- 
form, and  yet  draws  after  it,  by  the  simple  power  of 
love  and  holiness  and  a  broad  humanity,  a  multitude 
whom  no  man  can  number. 

Behind  Bunhill  Fields  lies  the  burial  ground  of 
the  Friends,  where,  underneath  a  homely  little 
meeting-house,  sleeps  brave  old  George  Fox.  He, 
alone,  has  anything  like  a  monument  or  memorial 


130  GEE  A  T  BURIAL  PL  A  CES. 

stone.  His  sturdy  followers  lie  under  the  long, 
rank  grass,  without  even  mounds  to  mark  their 
graves.  It  is  the  utter  annihilation  of  mortal  in- 
dividuality— a  dreary  democracy  of  death. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  we  spent  at  Kensal  Green, 
that  great  camping-ground  of  the  dead,  where  a 
host,  some  80,000  strong,  occupy  till  the  Lord  come. 
We  sought  out  first  the  grave  of  dear  Tom  Hood. 
A  soft  gleam  of  sunshine  rested  on  the  noble  bronze 
bust  which  marks  the  spot,  but  on  the  flowers  and 
shrubs  about  the  grave  itself  shone  the  profuse  rain- 
drops of  a  recent  shower,  so  significant  of  the  smiles 
and  tears  which  seem  to  make  up  his  bright  pathetic 
memory.  We  found  also  the  monument  over  the 
daughters  of  Walter  Scott,  Anne  Scott,  Sophia 
Lockhart,  and  also  little  Johnny  Lockhart — the 
"  Hugh  Littlejohn"  we  all  loved  for  his  grandfather's 
sake.  These  should  surely  have  been  buried  in  Dry- 
burgh  Abbey,  gathered  about  him  whose  love  held 
them  so  closely  and  dearly  in  life,  and  whose  fame 
gilds  that  sombre  spot  with  a  light  beyond  the 
"  laughing  light  of  flowers." 

At  the  grave  of  Sidney  Smith  one  feels  no 
sadness,  rather  a  cheerful  thankfulness  for  the 
manly  cheeriness,  the  wholesome  humor  and 
good-humor,  the  uprightness  and  righteousness, 
of  the  wit,  the  philosopher,  the  moralist,  and  the 


GREAT  BURIAL  PLACES.  131 

divine;  who  loved  God  through  his  fellow-men, 
and  his  fellow-men  through  God.  Thackeray  and 
John  Leach  lie  under  plain  altar-tombs,  almost 
side  by  side,  as  seems  fitting  for  the  two  great 
satirists  of  their  time,  so  kindred  in  their  genius, 
keen  but  kindly,  delicate  but  fearless  and  true. 
Heaven  rest  their  souls,  or  rather  give  them  the 
work  they  love!  Over  Leigh  Hunt's  grave  is  a 
marble  bust,  said  to  be  marvelously  like  him,  cer- 
tainly a  most  unique  and  refined  head  and  a  clear- 
cut  face,  seeming  alive  through  the  marble — coldly 
glowing  with  tender,  poetic  feeling.  A  little  way 
from  Leigh  Hunt's  grave  is  that  of  a  woman  fit  to 
be  the  companion  and  friend  in  life  and  the  neighbor 
in  death  of  the  choicest  poets  and  the  rarest  artists 
— "  Sophia,  wife  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne."  The 
white  headstone  bears  only  that  simple  inscription, 
one  marvelously  expressive  of  the  peculiar  wifely 
devotion,  impassioned  and  reverent,  with  which  she, 
a  woman  of  rare  intellect  and  culture  and  of 
great  moral  strength,  merged  her  life  in  her  hus- 
band's, and  would,  had  it  been  possible,  have  sunk 
her  sweet  fame  out  of  sight  in  his.  By  her  beloved 
mother's  side,  has  nestled  down  to  rest  her  fair 
daughter,  Una,  a  rarely  lovely  girl,  an  exquisitely 
sensitive  nature,  wearied  and  worn  out  before  her 
time.  I  went  again  shortly  after  to  Kensal  Green 


132  GREAT  BURIAL  PLACES. 

with  a  dear  friend,  to  plant  over  that  newer  grave 
some  delicate  vines  and  the  lily  of  the  valley.  In 
the  spring  time,  when  those  dainty  lilies  blow,  they 
will  remind  those  who  knew  Una  of  her,  as  no  other 
flowers  could — of  her  fragility  and  sweetness,  and  a 
certain  atmosphere  of  poetic  grace  and  purity, 
something  quite  indefinable  and  spiritual, "  felt  like  a 
perfume  within  the  sense." 

I  sought  out  in  the  chapel,  the  mural  tablet  above 
the  family  vault  of  Macready.  It  is  a  most  mourn- 
ful memorial,  recording  as  it  does,  not  only  the  death 
of  the  great  actor  and  good  man,  hut  that  o±  the  wife 
of  his  youth,  his  "  dearest  Catherine,"  and  his  be- 
loved sister  Letitia,  and  of  seven  of  his  children,  all 
of  whom  died  before  him.  Just  thirty  years  before 
his  own  final  exit  from  so  tragic  a  stage  of  being,  he 
wrote  in  his  diary,  after  a  sudden,  severe  illness,  "I 
can  btit  think  of  all  I  have  gone  through  as  a  re- 
hearsal of  the  scene  which  must  one  day  be  acted, 
when  I  must  feel,  in  addition  to  my  bodily  sufferings, 
that  I  must  leave  the  dear  friends  of  my  heart,  the 
blessed  children  of  my  love."  Alas !  what  he  had 
to  rehearse  was  "that  melancholy  journey  to  Kensal 
Green" — as  his  biographer  calls  it — taking  his  dar- 
lings one  by  one,  to  that  sombre  home,  that  small 
granite  house  in  the  crypt — till  a  goodly  company 
were  gathered  together.  Then  he  passed  in  himself 
and  shut  the  door. 


THE  MEMBER  FROM  CARLOW. 

A  SKETCH    FROM  LIFE. 


summer  morning,  some  sixteen  years  ago,  I 
visited  the  English  House  of  Commons — if  furtively 
peering  down  on  its  proceedings,  through  ihe  jalou- 
sie of  the  narrow  Ladies'  Gallery,  can  be  called  visit- 
ing that  proud  chamber  of  legislation.  Lady  Bland, 
the  wife  of  the  Speaker,  and  my  hostess  for  the  oc- 
casion, kindly  pointed  out  certain  notabilities,  such 
as  John  Bright,  Benjamin  Disraeli,  Mr.  Gladstone, 
and  lastly,  Professor  Fawcett,  the  blind  member, 
who  had  just  entered  in  the  midst  of  a  speech  by 
Lord  Hartington,  and  had  paused,  as  though  fearing 
to  distract  any  one's  attention,  and  stood  attentive 
with  such  a  look  of  listening  as  only  an  intelligent 
sightless  face  can  wear.  I  was  familiar  with  his 
pathetic  and  noble  story  of  endurance  and  struggle,  of 
Christian  resignation  and  pure  Anglo-Saxon  pluck ; 
and  as  I  looked  on  him  that  morning,  I  said  to  Lady 
Bland :  "  Surely  Mr.  Fawcett  is  the  most  heroic 
man  in  the  House  of  Commons." 


134  THE  MEMBEE  FROM  CARLO  W. 

"  Well,  yes,"  she  replied,  "  I  suppose  he  is ;  for 
though  misfortune  came  on  him  suddenly,  while  he 
was  in  the  first  flush  of  a  most  promising  manhood, 
he  did  not  let  it  overwhelm  him,  but  in  spite  of  it 
has  done  grandly  in  life ;  yet,  just  down  there,  to 
the  right,  sits  a  man,  who  by  the  force  of  immense 
patience  and  will  has  accomplished  even  more  for 
himself,  physically,  at  least,  and  who  I  think,  must 
be  accepted  as  a  moral  hero — though  rather  a  gro- 
tesque one  it  must  be  confessed.  It  is  the  member 
with  the  large,  strong  head,  not  wearing  his  hat, 
and  dressed  in  a  peculiar  manner." 

Looking  at  the  place  indicated  I  remarked  that  I 
could  see  what,  the  head  excepted,  seemed  only  the 
torso  of  a  man.  "  That,"  she  rejoined,  "  is  about  all 
there  is  to  see  in  this  case.  The  gentleman  is  Mr. 
Kavanagh,  an  Irish  member,  who  was  so  unfortu- 
nate as  to  be  born  without  legs  and  almost  without 
arms." 

Not  knowing  him  personally,  Lady  Bland  could 
tell  me  little  of  Mr.  Kavanagh,  except  the  facts  well 
known,  yet  almost  incredible,  of  his  many  accom- 
plishments— athletic  and  artistic — his  cleverness  as 
a  painter,  his  skill  as  a  horseman,  his  exploits  as  a 
sportsman.  She  told  me  that  he  was  always  borne 
in  the  arms  of  a  stout  Irish  retainer,  from  his  broug- 
ham, in  the  court,  up  the  steps  to  the  corridors, 


THE  MEMBER  FROM  CARLO  W.  135 

through  which  he  was  wheeled  in  a  chair  to  his  place 
in  the  Chamber !  She  said  he  rarely  spoke  in  the 
House,  but  that  when  he  did  join  in  a  debate,  he 
was  listened  to  with  respect,  as  a  man  of  intelligence 
and  integrity ;  that  usually  he  was  exceedingly 
reserved  in  manner ;  but  that  gentlemen  who  met 
him  at  the  club,  or  his  own  dinner-table,  found  him 
very  genial,  well-read,  a  good  story-teller,  a  wit — in 
short,  a  charming  companion. 

A  few  years  later  I  chanced  to  know  an  agreeable, 
intelligent  Irish  lady,  who  knew  the  Kavanaghs 
intimately  and  had  spent  much  time  at  the  old 
family-seat,  Borris  House,  County  Carlo w.  From 
her  I  received  certain  details  of  family  history  which 
gave  me  a  better  knowledge  of  the  character  and 
life  of  a  man,  remarkable  for  being  a  man  at  all, 
after  Nature's  cruel  niggardliness.  Aside  from  her 
own  observations,  this  young  woman  had  learned 
much  from  her  parents  and  from  tenants  on  the 
Carlow  estates  of  one  of  the  proudest  of  the  old  Irish 
families — direct  descendants  of  the  ancient  Kings  of 
Leinster. 

Arthur  McMurrough  Kavanagh  was  born  at  Bor- 
ris House  in  1831,  and  was  the  third  son  of  Thomas 
Kavanagh,  Esq.,  and  his  wife,  Lady  Harriet,  daugh- 
ter of  the  Earl  of  Clancarty.  There  were  no  rejoic- 
ings over  the  birth  of  this  baby,  who,  though  he  had 


136  THE  MEMBER  FROM  CARLOW. 

a  large  body  and  a  fine  head,  was  what  is  called  a 
"monstrosity  " — so  shockingly  unfinished  was  he, 
with  arms  only  reaching  to  the  elbow,  and  rudimen- 
tary legs,  but  a  very  few  inches  in  length.  It  was 
told  that  when  his  lady-mother  first  saw  him,  she 
cried  out  in  grief  and  horror  :  "  Oh,  take  him  away ; 
I  cannot  bear  to  look  on  him.  Why  does  God  so 
afflict  me  ?  " 

Afterward  she  struggled  against  that  feeling  of 
repugnance,  for  she  was  not  a  hard  woman,  but  she 
was  proud  of  her  other  sons  and  of  her  daughters, 
who  were  well-formed  and  handsome  ;  and  for  many 
years  the  sight  of  the  poor  little  lusus  naturae  sent 
a  pang  of  grief  and  mortification  to  her  heart.  She 
saw  that  the  boy  had  always  the  best  of  such  care 
and  companionship  as  the  best  of  servants  could 
give,  and  such  limited  instruction  as  it  was  sup- 
posed he  could  profit  by  and  enjoy ;  but  compared 
with  the  other  Kavanagh  children  he  was  neglected. 
When  his  brothers  and  sisters  were  nicely  dressed 
and  allowed  to  go  down  to  the  dining-room  with 
their  governess,  in  time  to  take  their  share  in  the 
fruit  and  sweets  of  the  dessert,  poor  little  Arthur 
was  left  in  the  nursery,  sitting  disconsolate  in  his 
wheeled  chair,  from  which  he  was  taken  betimes,  to 
be  undressed  and  put  to  bed,  where  he  rolled  about, 
like  a  miserable  little  ball,  and  bewailed  his  hard 


THE  MEMBER  FROM  CARLOW.  137 

fate.  He  was  especially  sad  when  the  sound  of 
music  and  dancing  came  up  from  the  great  hall. 
Then  the  place  where  each  leg  should  have  been 
became  an  "  aching  void." 

As  he  grew  older,  Arthur  was  a  fine-looking  boy, 
what  there  was  of  him.  He  had  a  full  chest  and 
broad-shoulders,  a  large,  well-balanced  head,  piled 
with  thick  masses  of  dark  hair,  a  face  not  handsome 
except  in  coloring,  and  for  the  eyes,  which  were 
large,  blue  and  soft,  and  fringed  with  long  dark 
lashes.  They  had  in  them,  I  have  been  told,  a  look 
of  appealing  yet  patient  sadness,  except  when  sparkl- 
ing with  genuine  Irish  fun,  which  happily  they  often 
were.  Next  in  charm  to  his  beautiful  eyes,  was 
his  voice,  which,  deep  and  sweet,  went  at  once  to 
the  heart.  Even  the  Squire  was  touched  by  it  some- 
times, and  the  Squire  had  never  quite  forgiven 
Providence  for  having  afflicted  him  with  even  a 
third  son  so  incomplete,  "  sent  into  this  breathing 
world  not  half  made  up." 

It  was  at  last  discovered  that  Arthur  was  the 
cleverest  of  all  the  Kavanagh  children.  A  tutor  at 
first  read  everything  to  him  ;  but  he  soon  grew  dis- 
contented with  such  a  second-hand  way  of  gaining 
knowledge  and  speedily  learned  to  read,  having  the 
book  hung  about  his  neck  and  turning  the  leaves  with 
his  lips.  From  reading  he  passed  to  writing,  putting 


138  THE  MEMBEE  FROM  CARLO  W. 

the  end  of  the  pen  in  his  mouth  and  guiding  the  nib 
with  his  right  arm-stump ;  for  he  was  not  left-handed. 
From  the  first  he  wrote  with  great  legibility  and 
nicety.  He  then  took  to  drawing  and  painting,  and, 
finally,  produced  work  of  which  even  his  lady-mother 
was  proud.  But  the  more  clever  and  ingenious  he 
proved  himself  to  be  the  more  unreconciled  to  him 
were  the  Carlow  peasants,  looking  upon  him  as  some- 
thing uncanny,  saying,  with  a  shrug  and  a  shudder, 
things  like  this :  "  Sure  he's  a  changeling  of  the  Evil 
One,  and  a  mighty  fine  thing  it  would  be  for  the 
Squire  and  my  lady  if  the  little  monster  were  to  die 
just."  But  the  "  little  monster  "  showed  no  signs  of 
dying  early.  Indeed,  he  was  remarkably  strong  and 
vigorous.  It  was  the  Squire  himself  who  died. 

Early  in  Arthur's  life  the  most  skillful  surgeons 
in  the  kingdom  decided  that  it  was  not  possible  to 
fit  the  poor  boy  with  serviceable  artificial  limbs,  and 
it  was  never  after  thought  practicable.  But  his 
little  apologies  for  legs  were  of  great  use  to  him,  as 
giving  him  a  certain  spring  in  his  queer  locomotion ; 
for  he  literally  hopped  from  the  floor  to  chairs,  and 
sofas,  and  up  steps.  When  a  little  fellow,  he  fear- 
lessly rolled  down  stairs  and  terraces.  He  was  as 
valiant  as  vigorous,  and  as  ready  for  a  fight  as  was 
ever  Fin  McC.ual,  the  Irish  giant  of  Causeway 
renown.  He  managed  to  hold  his  own  against  his 


THE  MEMBER  FEOM  CAELOW.  139 

full-limbed  brothers  and  their  playmates,  inclined 
to  tease  or  maltreat  him.  Not  only  like  the  doughty 
Witherington,  of  "  Chevy  Chace ,"  did  he  fight  "  upon 
his  stumps,"  but  with  his  stumps,  dealing  rapid,  re- 
sounding blows  with  his  little  half  arms  on  his  rash 
assailants.  They  could  not  trip  him  up ;  but  he,  with 
his  quick,  upward  spring,  could  hurl  himself  against 
them  like  a  battering-ram,  surprising  and  upsetting, 
and  putting  them  "in  doleful  dumps." 

In  his  childhood  Arthur  was  usually  carried  about 
the  fine  old  manor-house  and  its  grounds,  in  the 
arms  or  on  the  shoulders  of  a  stout  bearer;  but  as 
he  grew  older,  the  wheeled  chair  was  used  whenever 
possible.  His  dress  was  a  long  frock  of  black  or 
dark  blue  cloth,  to  which  a  cape  was  added  for  out- 
door wear — a  costume  which,  I  think,  was  never 
materially  changed. 

Just  when  the  idea  came  to  young  Kavanagh  to 
enlarge  his  means  of  activity,  so  cruelly  limited,  I 
do  not  know  ;  but  while  yet  a  child  he  was  observed 
to  be  perpetually  working  his  arm-stumps,  to 
bring  them  forward  and  together.  At  last,  he 
accomplished  his  hard  task  to  the  extent  of  being 
able  to  hold  a  large  object,  rather  insecurely.  He 
took  no  rest,  but  for  years  kept  up  his  painful 
practice  till  he  could  get  a  tight  grip  on  a  cane,  a 
pistol,  and  the  hilt  of  a  fencing-sword — till  he  could 


140  THE  MEMBER  FROM  CARLOW. 

have  swung  a  shillalah,  if  he  had  cared  to.  This 
victory  over  misfortune  caused  him  to  be  round- 
shouldered  ;  but  he  cared  only  for  the  new  power 
he  had  gained.  He  had  always  singular  faith  hi 
his  own  persistent  will ;  and  when  old  family  serv- 
ants were  telling  the  Kavanagh  boys  wonderful 
stories  of  their  ancestors,  the  fighting  Kings  of 
Leinster  and  bold  sea-chiefs,  or  dwelling  rapturously 
on  the  dash  and  daring  of  modern  Kavanaghs, 
McMurroughs  and  Clancarties  in  the  hunting-field, 
the  poor  lad,  whose  fine  eye  blazed  with  excitement, 
would  say :  "  I'll  do  such  things  when  I'm  a  man,  to 
show  that  I  have  their  blood  in  my  veins."  And 
when  one  of  his  merry  brothers  would  laugh  and 
exclaim :  "  Oh,  I  say,  Arthur !  You  wield  a  battle-ax 
and  sail  a  ship,  and  ride  after  the  hounds !  How  are 
you  going  to  do  it?"  He  would  simply  reply:  "I 
don't  know  ;  but  somehow" 

Kavanagh  never  wielded  the  ancestral  battle-ax, 
but  he  did  brave  execution  with  the  woodman's 
peaceful  implement  on  his  ancestral  forest  trees. 

One  day,  according  to  Miss  W ,  while  at  this 

work,  he  came  very  near  being  crushed  by  an  old 
oak,  the  direction  of  whose  fall  he  had  a  little  mis- 
calculated. He  hopped  his  best,  but  did  not  quite 
clear  the  sweep  of  the  big  branches,  and  was  actually 
pinned  to  the  ground,  through  the  long  skirt  of  his 


THE  MEMBER  FEOM  CARLOW.  141 

gown.    He  was  unhurt,  and  for  once  was  glad  there 
were  no  legs  under  his  broadcloth  skirt. 

Mr.  Kavanagh  was  never  an  Irish  Viking  of  the 
good  old  piratical  stock,  but  he  owned  a  splendid 
modern  galley,  or  yacht,  on  which  he  was  as  absolute 
as  Captain  Kidd — "  as  he  sailed,"  in  the  Irish,  Ger- 
man and  Baltic  seas ;  in  the  Atlantic,  the  Mediter- 
ranean and  Adriatic — and  finally  he  accomplished 
the  impossible,  in  becoming  an  acknowledged  sports- 
man. He  is  said  to  have  been  a  good  shot,  having 
guns  constructed  with  peculiar  locks,  allowing  his 
mouth  to  play  a  part  in  the  discharge,  probably.  If 
he  stalked  the  deer,  he  perhaps  crept  and  hopped 
and  humped  himself  about  quietly  among  the  rocks 
and  furze,  and  if  one  of  the  innocent  creatures  saw 
him,  he  probably  took  him  for  some  queer  harmless 
animal,  not  a  man  and  a  Christian — till  he  fired. 
For  following  the  hounds,  he  rode  in  a  sort  of  basket- 
saddle,  into  which  he  was  strapped.  He  held  the 
reins  in  the  firm  grip  of  his  elbows.  I  think  he  used 
no  whip ;  am  confident  he  wore  no  spurs ;  but  he 
was  always  "  in  at  the  death."  He  drove  the  most 
spirited  horses  with  singular  skill,  having  the  rib- 
bons passed  over  his  shoulders  and  under  his  arm- 
pits, and  managing  the  whip  in  some  mysterious 
way.  These  things  he  accomplished  in  his  young 
manhood,  thus  building  up  and  keeping  up  under  a 


142  THE  MEMBER  FROM  CARLOW. 

great  pressure  of  thought,  study  and  sadness,  his 
physical  health  and  vigor,  till  his  weight  was  full 
nine  stone,  and  his  strength  was  prodigious. 

Though  a  well-bred,  well-read,  accomplished  man, 
he  naturally  shrank  from  general  society ;  but 
whenever  he  did  visit  at  the  house  of  a  kinsman,  or 
neighbor,  all  whom  he  met,  young  and  old,  were 
attracted  to  him — gathering  about  his  wheeled  chair, 
and  listening  eagerly  to  his  talk,  grave  or  gay,  and 
to  his  delightful  story-telling.  He  was,  in  fact,  a 
man  of  remarkable  and  peculiar  fascination — not 
evil  in  its  nature  like  that  exercised  by  Miserrimus 
Dexter,  a  somewhat  similar  unfortunate,  in  one  of 
Wilkie  Collins'  novels,  but  rather  the  masterful 
charm  of  intellect  and  essential  nobility,  rendered 
more  masterful  by  wit  and  artistic  culture. 

Long  before  this  Arthur  Kavanagh  had  won  the 
affection  and  respect  of  his  mother,  and  as  the  years 
went  by  he  became  more  and  more  to  her  and  his 
sisters,  till  he  was  all  in  all — the  head  of  the  family, 
and  the  Master  of  Borris  House — his  two  elder 
brothers  being  dead.  One,  if  I  rightly  remember, 
was  killed  in  the  hunting- field.  They  had  been  wild 
young  fellows  and  squandered  so  much  in  their  brief 
careers  that  the  family  estates  in  Carlow,  Kilkenny 
and  Wexford  were  seriously  encumbered. 

The  new  Squire,  by  judicious  reforms  and  im- 


THE  MEMBER  FROM  CARLOW.  143 

provements,  by  tireless  personal  management,  wise 
economy  and  enormous  energy,  finally  brought  the 
rentals  up  to  nearly  the  old  princely  figure.  Yet 
he  was  not  a  hard  landlord.  He  was  said,  on  the 
contrary,  to  have  the  confidence  and  respect  of  his 
tenants  to  a  remarkable  degree,  though  many  were 
opposed  to  him  in  politics,  he  being  what  is  called 
an  "  English-Irishman" — a  Tory  of  the  Tories.  He 
was  in  Parliament  some  six  years,  his  constituents 
seeming  to  think  it  better  to  be  represented  by  half 
a  body  and  a  whole  man,  than  by  a  whole  body  and 
half  a  man,  as  might  have  been  the  case.  He  lived 
very  quietly  when  in  London,  avoiding  in  every  way 
possible  the  observation  of  the  curious. 

As  my  friend  Miss  ~W came  to  know  all  the 

cleverness  and  goodness  of  the  amiable  and  cour- 
teous gentleman  whom  in  her  childhood  she  had 
heard  referred  to  as  "  that  poor  uncanny  craytur,  at 
Borris  House,"  she  respected  him  and  felt  the  charm 
of  his  manner,  but  confessed  that  the  sight  of  him 
anywhere  out  of  his  wheeled  chair,  in  which  he  sat 
tall,  gave  her  a  sort  of  shock,  and  that  his  grotesque 
hop  was  too  much  for  her  nerves.  She  said  he 
seemed  to  have  wisdom  beyond  his  years  and  dig- 
nity above  his  inches  ;  for  his  tenants  used  to  come 
to  him  from  far  and  near  with  their  difficulties  and 
disputes,  for  judgment  and  adjustment.  There 


144  THE  MEMBER  FROM  CARLOW. 

was  a  fine  old  oak  on  the  lawn  before  Borris  House, 
under  which  he  used  to  sit,  to  hear  petitions  and  com- 
plaints, and  smoke  and  consider,  and  consider  and 
smoke. 

She  said  Mr.  Kavanagh  was  always  kind  to  ani- 
mals, and  had  a  great  variety  of  pets — including 
even  a  tame  bear.  He  seemed,  she  said,  to  love  these 
dumb  friends,  in  great  part,  because  he  saw  only 
friendliness,  not  idle  curiosity,  nor  wounding  com- 
miseration hi  their  eyes. 

There  was  a  touch  of  Irish  humor  hi  Miss  W 's 

description  of  Mr.  Kavanagh  on  board  his  yacht — 
especially  as  he  appeared  during  spells  of  rough 
weather,  when  he  was  hauling  ropes  and  shouting 
words  of  command,  which  now  and  then  had  a 
slightly  naughty  as  well  as  nautical  sound.  He  was 
a  good  sailor  from  the  first  to  the  last  of  the  cruise, 
though  he  could  never  have  been  said  to  have  "  got 
his  sea-legs  on."  He  reveled  hi  the  freedom,  peace 
and  comparative  privacy  of  that  life,  far  away  from 
administrative  cares,  political  enmities  and  staring 
crowds  ;  and  when  clad  hi  his  rough  peajacket  (in 
his  case,  an  Ulster  as  well),  and  crowned  with  his 
sou'wester,  he  hopped  the  quarter-deck,  he  doubtless 
felt  himself  every  inch  a  chief  of  the  old  McMur- 
rough  line — Kings  of  Leinster  and  Vikings  of  Kil- 
kenny for  a  thousand  years,  or  so. 


THE  MEMBER  FROM  CARLOW.  145 

But  it  all  came  to  an  end  last  Christmas-time, 
when,  among  our  foreign  telegraphic  items,  appeared 
this  brief  notice : 

"  DUBLIN,  Dec.  25th.— The  Eight  Hon.  Arthur 
McMurrough  Kavanagh,  formerly  a  Representative 
of  Carlow,  in  the  House  of  Commons,  is  dead." 

I  know  that  this  is  not  a  pretty  story  which  I 
have  told ;  but  I  hope  it  is  something  better. 

Now  that  my  strange  hero  has  finished  his  course 
so  heavily  handicapped,  here,  I  fain  must  think  of 
what  may  have  come  after.  If,  as  is  claimed,  this 
man's  cruel  physical  malformation  had  not  trenched 
upon  his  moral  nature — if  his  soul  had  attained  to 
the  full  stature  of  Christian  manhood — if  unto  the  end 
he  had  "  kept  the  faith,"  the  faith  of  his  fathers ; 
then,  what  must  have  been  to  him  the  entering 
into  a  new  and  perfect  body — the  first  outstretching 
of  liberated  limbs — the  out-thrusting  and  up-lifting 
of  grateful  hands,  tingling  with  life! — how  delicious 

the  sense  of  entire  completeness  in  being ! 
10 


A  PECULIAR  CITY. 


FERRARA — nee  Forum  aliene — is  a  very  interest- 
ing city — looking  backward.  If  you  wish  to  make 
a  sketch  of  it,  nowadays,  you  will  find  it  a  satisfac- 
tory still-life  subject ;  for  it  never  budges.  I  visited 
it  in  the  early  summer  of  1853,  and  again  in  the 
late  autumn  of  1886.  Alas !  it  did  not  recognize  me, 
but  I  knew  it  well ;  for  except  in  the  natural 
differences  of  the  seasons,  I  could  perceive  little 
change.  Yet,  during  those  thirty-three  years,  what 
events  had  shaken  the  world !  It  is  true  the  town 
had  come  out,  with  the  province  of  which  it  is  the 
capital,  from  under  the  civil  protection  of  the  Papal 
court — had  been  invaded  by  railroads  and  republic- 
anism, gas  and  Garibaldi ;  and  yet,  aside  from  the 
new  means  of  getting  to  the  desolate  place  and  of 
lighting  the  strangers'  way  about  at  night,  in  the 
double  gloom  of  the  deserted  streets,  shadowed  by 
huge  ruined  palaces,  I  saw  no  indication  of  progress 
or  prosperity.  It  is,  in  fact,  as  much  a  city  of  the 
past  as  was  Rome,  hi  the  artistic,  romantic  days — 


A  PECULIAR  CITY.  147 

before  revolution  and  restoration — when  I  knew  it 
first  and,  I  must  confess,  loved  it  best.  In  "  Chikle 
Harold  "  is  a  dreary  picture  of  the  once  brilliant 
"  capital  seat "  of  poetry,  art,  and  ducal  splendor : 


"  Ferrara,  in  thy  wide  and  grass-grown  streets 
Whose  symmetry  is  not  for  solitude, 

There  seem  as  'twere  a  curse,  upon  the  seats 
Of  foreign  sovereigns  and  the  antique  brood 

Of  Este"— 


A  poetic  idea  that ;  but  the  trouble  with  poor  old 
Ferrara  is  malaria,  not  malediction.  The  evil  which 
has  always  borne  upon  and  finally,  in  great  part, 
desolated  the  town,  is  its  geographical  position.  It 
stands  on  a  plain  fertile  enough,  but  hopelessly  mal- 
sain,  being  several  feet  below  the  level  of  the  sea  and 
the  river  Po — an  immemorial  camping-ground  of 
fevers  and  agues.  Only  the  wealth  and  power  of  the 
proud  house  of  Este  could  have  made  a  city  thus 
squatted  on  a  dull,  marshy,  foggy  plain,  prosperous 
and  populous.  It  is  hard  to  believe — but  when  it 
held  that  glorious  princely  court  it  was  a  great  com- 
mercial center  and  numbered  100,000  inhabitants. 
It  had  always  through  its  reverses,  humiliations 
and  decay,  a  little  business-heart,  pulsating  with 
more  or  less  feverish  activity ;  but  since  Byron's 
time  the  "  grass "  has  continued  to  grow  and  the 


148  A  PECULIAR  CITY. 

population  has  not,  though  we  do  read  that  "  all 
flesh  is  grass."  Some  streets  are  so  silent  and  de- 
serted, with  long  lines  of  uninhabited  and  uninhabit- 
able mansions,  that  one  is  reminded  of  Pompeii. 

Ferrara  used  to  be  included  in  the  regular  Italian 
tour,  especially  during  the  first  twenty  years  or  so 
after  Byron  visited  it  and  wrote  it  up  to  more  than 
Estian  fame ;  but  at  present  few  tourists  care  to  go 
out  of  their  way  to  do  it  honor,  and  a  forlorn  lot  of 
prehistoric  cabs  and  fossil  remains  of  cab-horses, 
stand  all  day  idle  on  its  melancholy  piazza.  One  of 
the  first  places  piously  visited  by  poetic  tourists  is 
the  quaint  hospital  of  St.  Anna,  in  the  basement  of 
which  is  the  narrow,  dismal  prison  cell  in  which,  it 
has  been  held,  the  poet  Tasso  was  confined  seven 
years,  six  months  and  ten  days,  by  Alphonso  II.  for 
the  crime  of  loving  "  not  wisely  but  too  well "  the 
proud  Duke's  sister,  the  beautiful  Leonora  d'Este. 

Thus  Byron : 


•  And  Tasso  is  their  glory  and  their  shame  ! 

Hark  to  his  strain,  and  then  survey  his  cell. 
And  see  how  dearly-earned  Torquato's  fame, 
And  where  Alphonso  bade  his  poet  dwell." 


Doubtless  Childe  Harold  really  believed  this  rue- 
ful tradition ;  but  good  authorities  now  hold  that 
the  poet  was  not  confined  in  the  hospital  as  in  any 


A  PECULIAR  CITY.  149 

sense  a  criminal,  but  as  a  patient,  suffering  from  a 
mental  and  nervous  malady ;  and  Tasso  himself  in 
some  manuscripts,  preserved  in  the  Library  of 
Madrid,  speaks  of  having  written  them  during  his 
durance  at  St.  Anna's  Hospital,  and  in  his 
"  chambers,"  and  says  that  il  Duca  did  not  hold  him 
as  a  prisoner. 

So,  one  after  another,  our  precious  poetic  tradi- 
tions and  pleasant  historic  romances  are  taken  from 
us !  Historians  have  pretty  well  proved  that 
Lucretia  Borgia,  Duchess  of  Ferrara,  was  a  much- 
maligned  lady — not  a  bad  sort  of  woman,  as  women 
went  in  the  days  of  the  Borgias  and  Estes — hot- 
tempered,  for  she  had  red  hair,  and  blue  eyes; 
d,  faire  mourir,  but  not  a  wholesale  poisoner, 
Donizetti's  opera  and  the  five  coffins  to  the  contrary, 
notwithstanding.  And  now,  certain  French  Philis- 
tines, after  mousing  among  musty  archives  at  Or- 
leans and  Mentz,  present  some  staggering  proofs 
that  Joan  d'Arc  was  not  burned  at  the  stake,  at 
Rouen,  but  lived  to  a  good  old  age  in  Domremy, 
enjoying  a  liberal  pension,  and  parading  in  full 
regimentals  at  musters,  and  on  festas,  with  other 
magnates,  military  and  municipal. 

But  thus  far  popular  faith  has  obstinately  clung  to 
Tasso's  cell.  Its  rough  walls  and  low  ceiling  and 
those  of  its  vestibules  are  scrawled  all  over  and 


150  A  PECULIAR  CITY. 

carved  with  the  names  and  sentiments  of  indignant 
tourists,  most  of  whom  never  read  a  line  of  Tasso 
in  all  their  lives.  The  Byron  autograph  you 
must  take  on  faith,  as  the  greater  part  of  it  has 
been  cut  out  and  carried  away  by  some  lover 
of  letters.  Quite  one-third  of  the  heavy  oaken 
door  of  the  cell  has  been  hacked  off  for  relics. 
I  disapprove  of  such  vandalism :  and  yet  I  must 
confess  to  having  bribed  our  guide  (he  looked  so 
poor  and  wistful)  to  carve  a  small  slice  for  me, 
which  bit  of  worm-eaten  wood  I  afterward  sent 
home  to  our  great  poet,  Whittier,  with  something 
prettier  and  more  poetic — a  bunch  of  flowers  from 
Ariosto's  garden. 

On  entering  that  miserable  little  cell,  which  I  al- 
ready felt  like  spelling  with  an  s,  we  became  despon- 
dent and  disbelieving — for  surely,  we  said,  it  were 
quite  impossible  a  delicate  and  sensitive  poet,  like 
the  author  of  "  Jerusalem  Delivered,"  could  have 
lived  so  long  and  written  so  grandly  in  such  a  hole. 
He  would  have  delivered  himself  "  with  a  bare  bod- 
kin "  within  six  months.  The  custodian,  yielding  to 
the  skeptical  spirit  of  our  age,  said  that  this  cell  was 
really  only  one  of  three  rooms,  that  two  had  been 
demolished  a  hundred  years  ago,  and  that  the  larger 
of  these  two  was  the  poet's  study,  from  the  windows 
of  which  he  could  look  across  the  then  open  space 


A  PECULIAR  CITY.  151 

to  the  Ducal  Castle,  and  behold  his  dear  Leonora, 
promenading  on  the  terrace,  gazing  now  and  then  in 
his  direction  and  flinging  kisses,  which  he  doubtless 
returned.  I  asked  the  amiable  cicerone  if  he  couldn't 
as  well  throw  in  a  telephone.  The  man  would  evi- 
dently have  had  us  believe,  for  our  comfort,  that  il 
Signor  Tasso  was  very  cosily  accommodated  at  St. 
Anna's  and  well  off,  for  so  idle  and  useless  a  creature 
as  a  half-mad  poet ;  but  I  am  afraid,  so  perverse  is 
the  human  heart,  that  we  felt  some  regret  at  the 
dispelling  of  the  old  illusion,  the  sad  picture  of 
Leonora's  lover,  shut  away  from  sight  and  hearing 
of  all  fair  and  pleasant  things — including  his  mistress 
— seeing  the  day  dimly  through  one  narrow  grated 
window,  yet  singing  always,  as  sings  the  nightingale 
"  with  its  breast  against  a  thorn." 

Ferrara,  under  the  Este  princes,  was  favored  of 
Apollo.  Ariosto  was  born  here,  and  here  lived  and 
died.  His  modest  house,  now  the  property  of  the 
city,  has  been  piously  preserved  and  cared  for.  It 
seems  to  have  had,  from  the  first,  neither  a  cupola 
nor  a  mortgage  on  it,  as  across  the  front  runs  a 
frieze,  bearing  a  humble-proud  Latin  inscription 
which  in  queer  English  reads — "  Little,  but  built  for 
me— but  free  of  all  charges — but  neat — my  property 
— paid  for  by  my  earnings."  His  study,  which  was 
also  his  chamber,  contains  few  relics,  yet  has  an  air 


152  A  PECULIAR  CITY. 

so  living  and  personal  one  ean  easily  imagine  that 
the  poet  has  just  walked  out  of  it  into  his  garden  in- 
stead of  having  been  carried  out  of  it  to  a  "  little 
church  'round  the  corner,"  nearly  four  hundred 
years  ago.  In  the  center  of  the  Piazza  Ariostea  is  a 
noble  statue  of  the  poet,  standing  on  a  lofty  white 
marble  column,  which  column  has  a  history  illustrat- 
ing the  ups  and  downs  of  life.  It  was  first  erected 
to  bear  a  proud  equestrian  statue  of  Duke  Hercules 
I. ;  but  horse  and  rider  had  to  come  down  in  1810,  to 
make  way  for  the  regnant  "  little  Corporal,"  Napo- 
leon, who  in  turn  ingloriously  descended,  in  1814, 
when  the  divine  Ludovico  ascended  and  stood  master 
of  the  situation.  Thus  prince  and  warrior  have  given 
place  to  the  poet — and  so  mote  it  be ! 

Near  by  is  the  Pinacotica,  the  sole  public  art  collec- 
tion of  Ferrara,  and  not  a  rich  one.  It  occupies  the 
Palazzo  de'  Diamanti,  so  called  from  the  shape  of 
the  marbles  of  its  outer  walls.  This,  of  all  the  mag- 
nificent palaces  of  the  Este  family,  is  the  only  one 
in  perfect  preservation.  It  has  a  wonderfully 
modern  look,  verily  Vanderbiltean.  It  is  strange 
that  the  city  once  frequented  by  Raphael,  Titian, 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Correggio,  and  other  great 
artists,  possesses  no  fine  examples  of  painting 
or  sculpture.  But  neither  has  it  any  princely 
patrons  of  art  and  literature.  It  is  simply  a  com- 


A  PECULIAR  CITY.  153 

mercial  town,  a  place  for  manufactures  and  trade 
in  small  ways.  It  has  not  "  a  soul  above  buttons ;  " 
is  ruled  no  longer  by  aristocracies  of  the  State  or 
Church.  It  has  as  many  suppressed  convents  and 
abandoned  churches  as  ruined  palaces.  We  re- 
marked one  venerable  little  chiesa,  dedicated  to  San 
Guiseppe,  which,  by  an  odd  return  to  first  principles, 
had  been  converted  into  a  carpenter's  shop.  In  the 
time  of  the  d'Estes  and  even  much  later,  under  the 
paternal  Papal  Government,  the  Jews  of  Ferrara 
were  treated  with  cruel  severity,  nightly  penned  in 
a  noisome  ghetto,  mocked,  contemned,  made  sport 
of  onfestas,  and  taxed  till  their  heartstrings  cracked. 
Now  they  are  all  abroad,  free  agents  and  oper- 
ators. They  have  little  public  spirit,  or  patriotism 
naturally ;  but  they  have  most  of  the  business  enter- 
prise and  wealth  of  the  community,  and  are  numer- 
ous enough  to  get  up  and  ghetto  their  Christian 
fellow-citizens. 

The  only  time  that  Ferrara  looked  to  us  like  a 
populous  town  was  on  a  market  day,  and  then, 
strangely  enough,  there  seemed  nothing  going  on. 
From  morning  to  night  crowds  of  sallow  peasant  men 
stood  about  the  streets  and  squares,  quiet,  almost 
silent,  a  listless,  stupid  set  of  people,  poor  in  pocket, 
in  spirit  and  in  blood.  They  seemed  to  be  patiently 
waiting  for  something  interesting  and  amusing  to 


154  A  PECULIAR  CITY. 

come  off, — a  balloon-ascension,  or  an  execution.  All 
wore  shabby  cloaks,  dirty  gray,  or  rusty  black  and 
"  shocking  bad  hats,"  soft  and  slouchy,  and  reminded 
one  of  a  hard  lot  of  conspiring  and  dissembling 
stage- villains.  I  only  wished  that  they  had  the  wit 
to  dissemble  and  the  pluck  to  conspire. 

Ferrara  has  an  imposing  cathedral,  S.  Giorgio, 
dating  from  1135,  and  at  least  one  noble  old  church, 
S.  Francesco,  which  contains  the  tombs  of  the  Este 
family ;  and  there  are  many  more  musty  old  temples 
of  Romanism,  in  which  religion  itself  seems  entombed 
in  dust  and  silence ;  but  the  special  pride  of  the 
Ferrarei,  and  their  consolation  in  decadence  is  the 
noble  old  stronghold  of  the  Estes — Marquises,  Mar- 
graves and  Dukes  of  Ferrara  d'Modena.  11  Castetto 
is  indeed  something  to  boast  of ;  "  grand,  gloomy 
and  peculiar,"  it  sullenly  faces  the  changing  world 
of  to-day  with  its  uncompromising  antiquity — its 
walls  of  cyclopean  massiveness,  its  four  battlemented 
towers,  its  moat,  drawbridge  and  portcullis.  It  is 
now  profanely  occupied  by  the  Bureau  of  Adminis- 
tration and  the  Telegraph,  yet  so  proudly  impressive 
is  it  that  such  anachronic  impertinences  take  little 
from  its  antique  and  picturesque  character.  As  you 
walk  over  the  drawbridge,  across  the  moat,  into 
the  great  sombre  court,  you  seem  stepping  out  of 
the  nineteenth  century  into  feudal  times.  In  ascend- 


A  PECULIAR  CITY.  155 

ing  the  grand  stairway,  one  must  think,  with  more 
or  less  emotion,  of  the  immortal  mortals  who,  in  the 
long  ago,  have  passed  up  those  marble  steps  to  the 
magnificent  salons  and  terraces  above,  of  the  most 
munificent  and  powerful  of  the  Princes  d'Este ;  of 
Tasso,  Ariosto,  Raphael,  Titian,  Leonardo,  Machia- 
velli ;  of  John  Calvin  and  his  convert — that  brave, 
unhappy  Princess  Renee,  of  France,  Duchess  of 
Ferrara,  who  for  her  Protestantism  was  finally  sep- 
arated from  her  husband  and  children ;  of  Leonora 
d'Este,  the  fair  and  sad ;  of  Lucretia  Borgia,  with  her 
glory  of  red  gold  hair ;  and  of  those  hapless,  unnat- 
ural sinners,  Parisina  Malatesta  and  Hugo  d'Este — 
wife  and  son  of  the  stern  Margrave  Nicholas.  A 
visit  to  the  prison-cells  of  that  guilty  pair,  by  gloomy 
passages  and  stairways  steep,  dark  and  narrow,  is 
somewhat  trying  to  one's  nerves.  Non  facilis  is 
the  descent  to  that  Avernus. 

The  foundations  of  the  castle  are  said  to  be 
honeycombed  with  dungeons — accommodations  pre- 
pared with  diabolical  hospitality  for  prisoners  of 
war  or  state,  so  that  when  revelling  after  a  battle 
won  or  a  conspiracy  discovered,  the  old  Ducal 
tyrants  sometimes  entertained  as  many  guests  in 
their  dreary  subterranean  apartments  as  in  their 
splendid  banquet-halls ;  and  when  in  Duchess  Renee' s 
chapel  John  Calvin  discoursed  on  the  anguish  of 


156  A  PECULIAR  CITY. 

lost  souls  in  torment,  mournful  and  despairing  re- 
sponses might  have  come  faintly  up  from  the  hell 
beneath  his  feet.  The  cells  of  Parisina  and  Hugo 
are  particularly  dark,  low,  and  oppressively  strong, 
and  being  below  the  level  of  the  moat,  naturally 
damp,  so  only  needing  a  plant  of  toads  and  reptiles 
to  render  them  eminently  satisfactory  as  dungeons 
to  lovers  of  sensational  romance. 

The  two  poor  wretches  could  hardly  have  felt 
dismay  when  summoned  to  ascend  to  the  light  of 
day,  the  court-yard  and  the  block.  There  seems 
never  to  have  been  any  doubt  that  Hugo  (called  Azzo 
in  the  poem  of  "  Parisina  ")  was  speedily  condemned 
by  his  father,  and  beheaded  in  this  court ;  but  at 
the  time  Byron  wrote  it  was  not  known  whether 
the  beautiful  step-mother  shared  his  fate,  or,  after 
being  compelled  to  witness  the  untimely  taking  off 
of  his  fair  young  head,  was  remanded  to  her  dun- 
geon, and  there  secretly  executed,  or  immured  in  a 
convent  for  life  and  death.  The  custodian  of  the 
Castello  told  us,  however,  that  when,  a  few  years 
ago,  the  old  Church  of  San  Francesco  was  restored, 
there  was  found,  among  the  tombs  of  the  Este 
family,  hi  the  crypt,  that  of  the  lovers,  which  when 
opened,  revealed  two  skeletons,  each  bearing  marks 
of  decapitation.  So  that  settles  it.  They  were  not 
"  lovely"  or  "  pleasant  in  their  lives,"  yet  "  in  their 


A  PECULIAR  CITY.  157 

death  they  were  not  divided  " — except  spinally,  not 
finally.  It  is  a  hideous  story,  which  not  even  the 
genius  of  Byron  could  render  poetic.  Indeed,  his 
rhymed  legend  is  by  no  means  lacking  in  poor, 
prosaic  lines. 

The  old  moat  surrounding  the  castle,  filled  with 
dark  green  water,  is,  I  am  sure,  a  source  of  malaria, 
as  it  makes  the  whole  vicinity  damp.  In  the  hotel 
just  opposite,  I  took  a  chill,  and  laid  my  ailment  to 
that  sluggish,  useless,  old  conservative  institution. 
I  really  believe  the  castle  itself,  hoary  with  mystery 
and  crime,  is  a  sort  of  incubus  on  the  modern  life  of 
Ferrara — a  huge  monster  of  ancient  pride,  craft  and 
cruelty,  sullen  with  impotent  hates,  hungering  in  its 
secret,  empty  dungeons,  blinking  out  on  the  peace- 
ful, democratic  present  with  its  wicked  old  eyes, 
and  showing  the  savage  wolf-teeth  of  its  tethered 
portcullis.  It  were  not  a  bad  chance  if  a  wander- 
ing earthquake  should  happen  along  to  suck  down 
the  slimy  moat,  topple  over  the  four  insolent  towers, 
and  heave  up  to  the  light  those  underground  prisons 
in  which  scores  of  brave  men  languished  and  died  in 
the  good  old  days. 

Ferrara  is  distinguished  among  Italian  cities  for 
not  having  a  public  monument  to,  or  a  statue  of, 
VittorioEmanuele,Mazzini,  or  Garibaldi ;  but  to  her 
honor  be  it  said,  she  has  erected  in  her  principal 


158  A  PECULIAR  CITY. 

piazza  a  monument  to  Savonarola,  surmounted  by 
a  statue  of  the  great  Frate,  who  was  born  in 
Ferrara  in  1452.  The  sculptor  has  represented 
him  as  preaching,  and  has  produced  a  very  impres- 
sive sermon  in  stone.  As  seen  from  my  window  at 
the  inn,  by  the  pale  moonlight,  this  tall,  white, 
ghostly  figure,  with  its  outstretched  arms  and 
cowled  head,  appealed  strongly  to  my  imagination 
and  reverence.  I  think  we  Americans  have  taken 
to  the  Fra  Girolamo  Cult  with  especial  devoutness, 
and  yet  we  were  only  just  discovered  when  he  suf- 
fered his  glorious  martyrdom,  and  had  no  part  nor 
lot  in  the  lofty  inspiration  of  his  life  and  the 
sanctifying  sorrow  for  his  death.  Still  it  is  for  our 
edification  to  revere  him  now,  for  his  was  a  white 
soul,  his  a  heart  to  stand  fire ;  he  had  clean  hands 
and  pure  lips ;  his  marvellous  eloquence  was  dedi- 
cated not  alone  to  Heaven  but  to  humanity ;  he  was 
priest,  prophet,  poet  and  patriot,  preaching  not  alone 
the  Law  and  the  Gospel,  but  civic  virtue,  popular 
freedom  and  reform ;  he  was  a  man  of  God,  and  of 
men.  I  think,  though,  that  by  this  time  we  should 
be  growing  our  own  saints  militant,  and  perhaps 
we  are.  The  troublous  times  of  the  Republic  are  not 
all  over  and  gone. 


TWO  SERMONS  ON  ONE  TEXT. 

"If  thine  enemy  hunger,  feed  him  :  if  he  thirst,  give  him  drink.' 


BREAD. 

THERE  is  a  sort  of  sacredness  about  bread  which 
does  not  belong  to  any  other  form  of  food.  It  is  as 
though  we,  like  children,  took  the  prayer  of  our 
Lord,  "Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread,"  in  a 
particular  and  limited  sense.  It  is  as  though  we 
remembered  always  that  He  blessed  and  brake 
bread — that  He  was  Himself  called  the  "  Bread  of 
Life."  No  wastefulness  shocks  us  like  the  waste  of 
"  the  staff  of  life."  In  Germany,  Sweden  and  Den- 
mark this  sentiment  has  grown  to  a  popular  super- 
stition. Hans  Christian  Andersen  has  a  story  of  a 
proud  girl  who  trod  upon  bread,  and  thereby  came 
to  grief ;  and  the  German  peasants  always  prophesy 
terrible  misfortunes  to  the  man,  woman,  or  child 
who  mocks  at,  or  flings  away  this  good  gift  of 


160  TWO  SERMONS  ON  ONE  TEXT. 

Heaven,  even  in  the  form  of  the  stalest  and  coarsest 
of  their  "  black  loaves,"  which,  indeed,  are  of  too 
heavy  and  substantial  a  character  to  be  made  light 
of.  The  great  Thirty  Years'  War,  with  its  famines 
and  dire  distresses,  probably  gave  rise  to  this  super- 
stition. It  has  the  strongest  hold  on  the  minds  of 
the  peasantry,  the  descendants  of  the  people  who 
suffered  most  bitterly  in  that  dreadful  period,  but 
all  classes  entertain  it  to  a  degree, — few  are  so 
reckless  or  profane  as  to  see  without  fear,  or  dis- 
pleasure, a  slight  put  upon  bread;  and  that  brings 
me  to  my  little  story. 

When  Napoleon's  great  army  was  on  the  march 
toward  Russia,  in  the  summer  of  the  year  1812,  a 
portion  of  it  passed  through  Saxony, — a  proud, 
exultant,  insolent  set  of  fighters  and  spoilers,  mak- 
ing free  with  all  that  came  in  their  way,  and  often 
insulting  the  unoffending  people.  Among  other 
quiet  towns,  that  of  Oschatz  was  visited  with  this 
mighty  swarm  of  imperial  locusts,  and  the  inhabit- 
ants were  called  upon  to  pay  tribute  in  the  way  of 
food  and  comfortable  quarters.  It  happened  that 
a  company  of  infantry  halted  before  the  house  of  a 
Protestant  school-teacher,  and  there  demanded 
food,  and  the  teacher's  son,  a  handsome  little  lad, 
with  great,  dark  eyes,  deep  and  grave  and  thought- 
ful, ran  in  to  his  mother  for  some  bread.  The  good 


TWO  SERMONS  ON  ONE  TEXT.  161 

woman  gave  him  a  large  brown  loaf,  such  as  they 
themselves  had  just  been  eating.  It  was  indeed 
their  "daily  bread."  This  the  lad  took  out  and 
courteously  offered,  with  a  knife,  to  a  gallant  look- 
ing young  officer,  who,  to  his  astonishment  and 
horror,  flung  it  contemptuously  on  the  ground, 
saying,  "How  dare  you  offer  us  miserable  black 
bread,  fit  only  for  swinish  German  peasants !  Bring 
us  white  bread,  you  young  rascal ! " 

Hungry  as  they  were,  the  soldiers,  in  the  spirit  of 
their  officer,  kicked  the  offending  brown  loaf  about, 
like  a  foot-ball,  until  they  quite  demolished  it,  and 
then  shouted  for  white  bread.  But  little  Constan- 
tine,  who  was  rightly  named,  replied  bravely: 
"  We  have  no  white  bread, — we  gave  you  the  best 
we  had,  and  you  are  very  wicked  to  treat  that  good 
brown  loaf  so.  My  mother  made  it,  and  God  pun- 
ishes people  who  fling  bread  on  the  ground." 

The  rude  French  soldiers  might  have  made  him 
suffer  for  his  plain  speaking,  had  not  the  officer, 
looking  a  little  ashamed,  marched  them  on  to  other 
houses,  in  search  of  white  bread,  better  suited  to 
their  dainty  appetites. 

The  incident  had  been  witnessed  by  a  crowd  of 
people,  who,  shocked  and  indignant,  all  prophesied 
humiliation  and  misfortune  to  the  discourteous 

strangers.    After  a  few  hours,  the  French  troops 
11 


162  TWO  SERMONS  ON  ONE  TEXT. 

marched  off,  and  the  old  town,  whose  inhabitants 
they  had  bullied  and  robbed,  returned  to  its  quiet, 
steady  -going  ways. 

It  was  thus,  insulting  and  spoiling,  that  the  hosts 
of  Xapoleon  marched  on  through  the  Fatherland — 
with  splendid  visions  and  magnificent  plans  of  con- 
quest, glory,  dominion  and  revels — to  disaster, 
defeat, — to  unutterable  horrors  of  tempest,  cold  and 
death.  The  dread  elements,  the  awful  forces  of 
nature  were  arrayed  against  them — the  blind  aveng- 
ing furies  of  Frost  and  Fire  and  Flood.  In  the 
cold  bosom  of  a  strange  land,  unseen  graves,  like 
icy  pitfalls,  awaited  them ;  and  in  the  clouds  of  an 
alien  sky  were  even  then  being  prepared  for  them, 
slowly  and  silently,  from  the  soft  exhalations  of  the 
summer  earth,  vast  winding-sheets  of  snow.  Many 
a  green  valley,  in  which  they  gayly  bivouacked,  on 
the  daisied  turf,  with  murmurous  leaves  and  sweet 
bird-chirpings  overhead,  was  but  a  few  months 
later,  to  receive  them  in  white  silence — to  invite 
them  to  beds  of  treacherous  softness  and  fatal 
repose,  overhung  by  leafless  branches  sheathed  in 
ice, — a  spot  seemingly  abandoned  by  Nature,  for- 
saken of  life,  a  ghostly  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of 
Death. 

When  the  people  of  Oschatz  heard  of  the  fearful 
reverses  of  that  grand  army,  they  said :  "  It  is  little 


TWO  SERMONS  ON  ONE  TEXT.  163 

wonder,  if  they  all  flung  good  bread  on  the  ground, 
and  kicked  it  about  after  the  manner  of  those 
Heaven-defying  soldiers  who  marched  through  our 
town." 

At  last,  the  remnants  of  that  proud  invading  host 
came  straggling  back  through  Germany.  A  misera- 
ble set  of  men  were  they — sickly,  ragged,  maimed, 
frost-bitten, — humiliated  and  amazed  to  find  the 
world  slipping  from  the  grasp  of  their  deity,  the 
great  Emperor,  that  the  laws  of  Nature  did  not  come 
under  the  "  Code  of  Napoleon  " — that,  in  his  mag- 
nificent plans  of  conquest,  he  had  left  out  the 
mighty,  disturbing,  elemental  forces ;  had  left  out 
chances,  accidents,  providences,  God. 

So  it  happened  that  the  town  of  Oschatz  was 
again  visited  by  the  French,  and  strangely  enough 
it  happened  that  to  that  very  town  came  the  sad 
remains  of  the  very  company  that  had  called  down 
upon  their  heads  the  bread  curse.  Again  they 
halted  before  the  teacher's  house,  and  again  little 
Constantine  ran  to  his  mother  for  bread.  This  time 
there  was  white  bread,  and  he  took  out  a  large  loaf 
and  offered  it  to  the  young  officer  whom  he  remem- 
bered well,  though  now  he  saw  him  pale  and  emaci- 
ated, his  brave  uniform  soiled  and  dilapidated,  and 
one  sleeve  of  his  braided  coat  hanging  empty.  To  the 
lad's  surprise  the  officer  recognized  him  at  once ;  to 


164  TWO  SERMONS  ON  ONE  TEXT. 

his  greater  surprise  he  burst  into  tears,  and  refused 
to  take  that  tempting  white  loaf,  saying :  "  Xo,  my 
good  little  friend,  I  cannot  take  this,  though  I  am 
very  hungry,  as  are  my  men.  Bring  us  black  bread 
such  as  we  trampled  under  foot  in  the  summer ; — 
that  is  better  than  we  deserve.  Ah,  my  boy,  God 
has  punished  us,  as  you  said  He  would."  Then 
little  Constantine  went  into  the  house  and  got  a 
brown  loaf  from  his  mother,  and  all  the  charitable 
neighbors  contributed  from  their  stores,  far  more 
willingly  than  they  once  had  done,  feeding  the  poor 
crestfallen  fellows,  and  refreshing  them  with  good 
beer,  without  addressing  to  them  one  reproachful 
or  taunting  word, — without  as  much  as  saying  to 
them :  "  We  told  you  so — you  profane  frog-eaters 
and  bread-despisers !  "  This  was  the  way  in  which 
the  good  people  of  Oschatz  obeyed  the  command  of 
their  Lord,  "  If  thine  enemy  hunger,  feed  him :  if 
he  thirst,  give  him  drink." 

One  honest  farmer  who  had  actually  come  to 
town  that  day  to  purchase  a  farm-wagon  and  horses, 
to  replace  those  of  which  these  same  French  soldiers 
had  robbed  him,  now  filled  the  new  vehicle  with 
sick  and  wounded  men,  and  so  conveyed  them  sev- 
eral miles  on  their  way,  past  his  own  home,  to  their 
camping-place,  walking  most  of  the  distance  him- 
self, to  make  room  for  a  poor  straggler.  That  un- 


TWO  SERMONS  ON  ONE  TEXT.  165 

lettered  "  German  boor  "  had  probably  never  heard 
of  a  triumphal  car,  yet  his  rude  wagon  was  one, — 
only  that  the  conqueror  walked,  while  the  captives 
rode.  Not  the  gilded  chariot  which  once  bore 
Caesar  and  his  fortunes  along  the  Appian  Way,  or 
through  the  Roman  Forum,  was  so  grand  as  that 
market  cart,  rumbling  and  creeping  along  under  its 
load  of  sad  and  humble  soldiers.  It  was  the  trium- 
phal car  of  Christianity,  which  Christ  himself  would 
not  have  disdained  to  mount.  I  believe  he  did  ride 
home  with  the  tired  peasant  that  night,  under  the 
solemn  stars. 

"  The  child  is  father  to  the  man."  Constantino 
Hering  grew  up  to  be  a  profound  scholar  and  a 
great  physician.  He  came  to  America  in  his  early 
manhood,  and  took  up  his  abode  in  Philadelphia,  and 
never  left  that  city.  He  was,  when  I  last  saw  him, 
an  old  man  with  a  grand  leonine  look,  but  he  did 
not  seem  old,  for  he  kept  still  the  brave,  tender,  rev- 
erential, honest  heart  of  his  boyhood.  A  philoso- 
pher and  yet  a  philanthropist,  his  deep,  tender  eyes 
looked  eagerly  into  the  mysteries  of  Nature  and 
pityingly  into  suffering  human  souls.  A  strong  live 
man,  he  kept  pace  with  the  century,  on  the  first  day 
of  which  he  was  born,  till  the  end — which  was  but 
the  beginning.  "We  know  that  wherever  it  voyages, 
in  all  his  Father's  infinite  universe — that  swift,  keen 


166  TWO  SERMONS  ON  ONE  TEXT. 

intelligence,  athirst  for  knowledge,  it  is  "  on  his 
Father's  business — "  that  wherever  it  rests,  that 
pitying,  sympathetic  soul,  it  is  wrapped  hi  love, 
divine,  yet,  more  than  ever,  human. 


TWO  SEHMONS  ON  ONE  TEXT.  167 


II. 

SERMON  WATER. 

SHORTLY  after  the  close  of  our  great  civil  war,  I 
chanced  to  travel  by  rail  for  several  hours,  seated 
beside  a  young  cavalryman  from  Wisconsin,  who 
was  on  his  way  home,  with  an  honorable  discharge, 
after  four  years'  service.  As  he  was  of  "  goodly  coun- 
tenance," was  singularly  frank  and  friendly,  and 
though  not  "cultured,"  was  very  intelligent,  I 
soon  fell  into  conversation  with  him,  and  led  him  on 
to  beguile  the  way  by  relating  incidents  of  the  battle- 
field and  camp-life.  Some  of  these  were  intensely  in- 
teresting, as  such  things  were  before  our  magazines 
— which  it  seems  will  never  get  out  of  gunpowder 
— had  made  traffic  in  them,  dulling  our  faith  in  the 
heroic  and  even  our  sense  of  the  "horrible  and 
awfu',"  by  endless  iteration  and  contradiction. 

One  of  the  simplest  of  his  stories,  told  with  an 
appearance  of  the  utmost  good  faith,  so  impressed 
me  that  I  immediately  took  notes  of  it,  and  so  am 


168  TWO  SERMONS  ON  ONE  TEXT. 

able  to  reproduce  it  almost  exactly  in  the  soldier's 
own  words. 

"  Our  regiment,"  he  said,  "  was  under  Banks,  in 
the  spring  of  1862,  when  he  made  such  good  time  in 
getting  down  the  Shenandoah  Valley.  It  was  an 
awful,  driving,  confused,  exhausting,  hurry-skurry 
*  change  of  base,'  but  it's  curious  that  I  chiefly  re- 
member it  by  a  little  incident,  which  perhaps  you 
will  think  was  hardly  worth  laying  up,  and  is  hardly 
worth  telling  of." 

I  signified  my  desire  to  hear  his  little  story  and 
he  went  on : 

"  I  was  one  morning  dispatched,  in  hot  haste,  to 
the  extreme  rear,  with  a  very  important  order.  As 
ill-luck  would  have  it,  I  had  to  ride  a  strange  horse, 
as  my  own  had  fallen  lame.  The  one  provided  for 
me  proved  just  the  most  ill-natured,  vicious  brute  I 
ever  mounted.  I  had  hard  work  to  mount  him  at 
all,  for  his  furious  rearing  and  plunging ;  and  when, 
at  last,  I  reached  the  saddle,  he  was  so  enraged, 
there  was  no  getting  him  on  for  at  least  five  minutes. 
With  his  ugly  head  down,  and  his  ears  back,  he 
would  whirl  round  and  round,  pivoting  on  his  fore- 
feet and  lashing  out  with  his  hind-legs,  till  I  fancy 
they  must  have  looked  like  the  spokes  of  a  big  wheel. 
When  he  found  that  I  was  master  of  the  situa- 
tion, that  my  hand  was  firm  and  my  spurs  were 


TWO  SERMONS  ON  ONE  TEXT.  169 

sharp,  he  gave  in — till  the  next  time ;  but  I  knew 
that  he  was  continually  watching  for  a  chance  to 
fling  me  over  his  head  and  trample  the  mastership 
out  of  me. 

"  I  rode  hard  that  day,  both  because  of  my  orders, 
and  for  the  purpose  of  putting  that  devil  of  a  horse 
through ;  but  there  were  many  obstructions  in  the 
road — marching  columns,  artillery,  army-wagons, 
and  above  all,  hosts  of  contrabands,  who  were  always 
scrambling  to  get  out  of  your  way,  just  into  your 
way ;  so  it  was  noon  before  I  had  made  half  of  my 
distance.  It  was  a  hot,  sultry,  and  dusty  day.  I 
had  exhausted  my  canteen,  and  was  panting,  with 
tongue  almost  lolling,  like  a  dog.  Just  as  my  thirst 
was  becoming  quite  unbearable,  I  came  upon  a  group 
of  soldiers,  lounging  by  a  wayside  spring,  drinking 
and  filling  their  canteens.  At  first  I  thought  I  would 
dismount,  as  my  horse  seemed  pretty  well  subdued 
and  blowed ;  but  no  sooner  did  he  guess  my  inten- 
tion, than  he  began  again  his  diabolical  friskings 
and  plungings,  at  which  the  stragglers  about  the 
spring  set  up  a  provoking  laugh,  which  brought  my 
already  hot  blood  up  to  the  boiling-point.  Still,  I 
didn't  burst  out  at  once.  I  swung  off  my  canteen, 
and  said  to  one  of  the  men,  the  only  fellow  that 
hadn't  laughed  at  my  bout  with  the  horse  :  'Here, 
comrade,  just  you  fill  this  for  me.' 


170  TWO  SEBMONS  ON  ONE  TEXT. 

"  He  was  a  tall,  dark,  heavy-browed,  surly-look- 
ing chap,  but,  for  all  that,  I  didn't  look  for  such  an 
answer  as  he  growled  out :  ^ 

«  <  Fill  your  own  canteen,  and  be  damned  to  you !  ' 

"  I  tell  you  I  was  mad ;  the  other  fellows  laughed 
again,  and  then  I  was  madder,  and  I  just  says  to 
him : '  You  mean  devil !  I  hope  to  God  I  shall  yet 
hear  you  begging  for  a  drink  of  water !  If  ever  I 
do,  I'll  see  you  die,  and  go  where  you  belong,  before 
I'll  give  it  to  you ! ' 

"  Then  I  galloped  on,  though  some  of  the  men 
called  to  me  to  come  back,  saying  they'd  fill  my 
canteen.  I  didn't  stop  till  I  reached  a  house,  a  mile 
or  two  further  on,  where  a  little  black  boy  watered 
both  me  and  my  horse,  and  filled  my  canteen,  with 
a  smile  that  the  handful  of  new  pennies  I  gave  him 
couldn't  begin  to  pay  for.  When  I  compared  the 
conduct  of  this  poor  little  chip  of  ebony,  who  said 
he  '  never  had  no  father,  nor  mother,  nor  no  name 
but  Pete,'  with  the  treatment  I  had  received  from 
a  white  fellow-soldier,  I  found  that  that  drink  of 
cold  water  hadn't  cooled  down  my  anger  much. 
And  for  months  and  months  after,  whenever  I 
thought  of  that  affair,  the  old,  mad  feeling  would 
come  boiling  up.  The  fellow's  face  always  came 
out  as  clear  before  me  as  my  own  brother's,  only  it 
seemed  to  be  more  sharply  cut  into  my  memory.  I 


TWO  SERMONS  ON  ONE  TEXT.  171 

don't  know  why  I  resented  this  offence  so  bitterly. 
I  have  let  bigger  things  of  the  sort  pass,  and  soon 
forgotten  them ;  but  this  stuck  by  me.  I  am  not 
a  revengeful  fellow  naturally,  but  I  never  gave  up 
the  hope  of  seeing  that  man  again,  and  somehow 
paying  him  back  for  his  brutal  insolence.  There 
wasn't  a  camp  or  review  I  was  in  for  the  next  two 
years  but  I  looked  for  him,  right  and  left.  I  never 
went  over  a  field,  after  a  battle,  but  that  I  searched 
for  him  among  the  dying — God  forgive  me!  At 
last  my  opportunity  came. 

"  I  had  been  wounded,  and  was  in  one  of  the 
Washington  hospitals — almost  well,  yet  still  not 
quite  fit  for  duty  in  the  saddle.  I  hate,  above  all 
things,  to  be  idle;  so  I  begged  for  light  employ- 
ment as  a  hospital  nurse,  and  they  gave  it  to  me, 
and  said  I  did  my  duty  well. 

"  I  never  felt  for  our  poor,  brave  fellows  as  I  did 
there.  I  had  been  very  fortunate,  and  until  that 
summer  had  never  been  in  hospital.  Now  I  saw 
such  suffering  and  such  heroism  as  I  had  never 
seen  on  the  battle-field.  Companionship  helped  to 
keep  up  the  spirits  of  those  we  could  not  save,  to 
the  last.  Then  it  seemed  hard  that  each  brave  boy 
must  make  his  march  down  the  dark  valley  alone. 
But  they  all  went  off  gallantly.  I  would  rather 
have  galloped  forward  on  a  forlorn  charge,  any  day, 


172  TWO  SERMONS  ON  ONE  TEXT. 

than  have  followed  any  one  of  them  over  to  the 
'  Soldiers'  Rest,'  though  it  is  a  pretty  place  to 
camp  down  in.  In  fact,  my  heart  grew  so  soft  there 
so  Christianized,  as  it  were,  that  I  forgot  to  look 
for  my  old  enemy ;  for  so,  you  see,  I  still  regarded 
the  surly  straggler  who  refused  me  water  at  the 
roadside  spring. 

"  After  the  battles  of  the  Wilderness,  a  great  mul- 
titude of  the  wounded  were  poured  in  upon  us ;  all 
our  wards  were  filled  to  overflowing.  It  was  hot, 
close  weather ;  most  of  the  patients  were  fevered  by 
their  wounds  and  exposure  to  the  sun,  and  up  and 
down  the  long,  ghastly  lines  of  white  beds  the  great 
cry  was  for  water.  I  took  a  large  pitcher  of  ice- 
water  and  a  tumbler,  and  started  on  the  round  of 
my  ward,  as  eager  to  give  as  the  poor  fellows  were 
to  receive.  The  ice  rattled  and  rung  in  the  pitcher 
in  a  most  inviting  way,  and  many  heavy  eyes  opened 
at  the  sound,  and  many  a  hot  hand  was  stretched 
out,  when,  all  at  once,  on  one  of  the  two  farthest 
beds  of  the  ward,  I  saw  a  man  start  up,  with  his  face 
flaming  with  fever  and  his  eyes  gleaming,  as  he 
almost  screamed  out :  'Water!  give  me  water,  for 
God's  sake!' 

"Then,  I  couldn't  see  any  other  face  in  all  the 
ward,  for  it  was  he! 

"I  made  a  few  steps  towards  him,  and  saw  he 


TWO  SERMONS  ON  ONE  TEXT.  173 

knew  me  as  well  as  I  knew  him,  for  he  fell  back  on 
his  pillow,  and  just  turned  his  face  towards  the 
wall.  Then  the  devil  tightened  his  grip  on  me,  till 
it  seemed  he  had  me  fast  and  sure,  and  he  seemed  to 
whisper  into  my  ear :  *  Rattle  the  ice  in  the  pitcher, 
and  aggravate  him !  Go  up  and  down,  giving  water 
to  all  the  others,  and  not  a  drop  to  him ! ' 

"Then  something  else  whispered,  a  little  nearer, 
though  not  in  such  a  sharp,  hissing  way — conscience, 
I  suppose  it  was ;  good  Methodists  might  call  it  the 
Holy  Spirit ;  other  religious  people  might  say  it  was 
the  spirit  of  my  mother  ;  and  perhaps  we  would  all 
mean  about  the  same  thing — anyhow,  it  seemed  to 
say :  '  Now,  my  boy,  is  your  chance  to  return  good 
for  evil.  Go  to  him,  give  him  to  drink  first  of  all !  * 
And  that  something  walked  me  right  up  to  his  bed- 
side, made  me  slide  my  hand  under  his  shoulder  and 
raise  him  up,  and  put  the  tumbler  to  his  lips.  How 
he  drank  I  never  can  forget — in  long,  deep  draughts, 
almost  a  tumblerful  at  a  swallow,  looking  at  me  so 
wistfully  all  the  time.  When  he  was  satisfied,  he 
fell  back,  and  again  turned  his  face  to  the  wall, 
without  a  word.  But  somehow  I  knew  that  fellow's 
heart  was  touched,  as  no  chaplain's  sermon  or  tract 
had  ever  touched  it. 

"  I  asked  the  surgeon  to  let  me  have  the  sole  care 
of  this  patient,  and  he  consented,  though  he  said  the 


174  TWO  SERMONS  ON  ONE  TEXT. 

man  had  a  bad  gun-shot  wound  in  the  knee,  and 
would  have  to  submit  to  an  amputation,  if  he  could 
stand  it ;  and  if  not,  would  probably  make  me  a 
great  deal  of  trouble  while  he  lasted. 

"Well  I  took  charge  of  him — I  had  to  do  it,  some- 
how— but  he  kept  up  the  same  silence  with  me  for 
several  days ;  then,  one  morning,  just  as  I  was  leav- 
ing his  bedside,  he  caught  hold  of  my  coat  and 
pulled  me  back.  I  bent  down  to  ask  him  what  he 
wanted,  and  he  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper :  '  You  re- 
member that  canteen  business  hi  the  Shenandoah 
Valley?'  'Yes;  but  it  don't  matter  now,  old  fel- 
low,' I  answered. 

" '  But  it  does  matter,'  he  said.  '  I  don't  know 
what  made  me  so  surly  that  day,  only  that  an  up- 
start young  lieutenant  from  our  town  had  just  been 
swearing  at  me  for  straggling;  and  I  wasn't  to 
blame,  for  I  was  sick.  I  came  down  with  the  fever 
the  next  day.  As  for  what  I  said  to  you,  I  was 
ashamed  of  it  before  you  got  out  of  sight ;  and,  to 
tell  the  truth,  I've  been  looking  for  you  these  two 
years,  just  to  tell  you  so.  But  when  I  met  you  here, 
where  I  was  crying,  almost  dying,  for  water,  it 
seemed  so  like  the  carrying  out  of  your  curse,  I  was 
almost  afraid  of  you.' 

"  I  tell  you  what,  ma'am,  it  gave  me  strange  feel- 
ings to  think  of  him  looking  for  me,  to  make  up,  and 


TWO  SERMONS  ON  ONE  TEXT.  175 

I  looking  for  him,  to  be  revenged,  all  this  time; 
and  it  was  such  a  little  sin,  after  all.  I'm  not 
ashamed  to  confess  that  the  tears  came  into  my  eyes 
as  I  said :  '  Now,  Eastman  (that  was  his  name ;  he 
was  a  Maine  man),  don't  fret  about  that  little  matter 
any  more;  it's  all  right,  and  you've  been  a  better 
fellow  than  I  all  along.' 

"  But  he  had  taken  it  to  heart,  and  was  too  weak 
to  throw  it  off.  It  was  '  so  mean,'  he  said,  '  so  un- 
soldier-like  and  bearish; '  and  I  was  '  so  good  to 
forgive  it,'  he  insisted. 

"  I  stood  by  him  while  his  leg  was  amputated ; 
and  when,  after  a  time,  the  surgeon  said  even  that 
couldn't  save  him,  that  he  was  sinking,  I  found  that 
the  man  was  like  a  brother  to  me.  He  took  the 
hard  news  that  he  must  die,  just  as  the  war  was 
almost  ended,  like  the  brave  fellow  he  was.  He 
dictated  a  last  letter  to  his  sister,  the  only  relative 
he  had ;  gave  me  some  directions  about  sending  some 
keepsakes  to  her,  and  then  asked  for  the  chaplain. 
This  was  a  good,  sensible,  elderly  man,  and  he 
talked  in  about  the  right  style,  I  think,  and 
made  us  all  feel  quite  comfortable  in  the  belief  that 
in  the  Father's  house  there  must  be  a  mansion  for 
the  poor  soldier,  who  had  so  often  camped  out  in 
snow  and  rain ;  and  that  for  him  who  had  given  his 


176  TWO  SERMONS  ON  ONE  TEXT. 

all  for  his  country,  some  great  good  must  be  in  store. 

"  At  last,  the  poor  fellow  said  to  the  chaplain : 
« Isn't  there  something  in  the  Bible  about  giving  a 
cup  of  cold  water  ?'  I  can't  tell  you  how  that  hurt 
me.  '  Oh  Eastman ! '  said  I,  '  don't,  don't ! '  But  he 
only  smiled  as  the  chaplain  repeated  the  verse. 
Then  he  turned  to  me  and  said :  *  You  didn't  think 
what  you  were  doing  for  yourself  when  you  gave 
me  that  glass  of  ice- water  the  other  day,  did  you, 
old  fellow  ?  Can  I  pass  for  one  of  the  little  ones, 
though,  with  my  six-feet-two  ? '  Then  he  went  on 
talking  about  being  little,  and  the  kingdom  of  heaven 
till  we  almost  feared  his  mind  was  wandering :  but 
perhaps  it  was  only  finding  its  way  home.  *  I  do 
feel  strangely  childish  to-night,'  he  said.  '  I  feel  like 
saying  the  prayer- verse  my  mother  taught  me  when 
she  used  to  put  me  to  bed,  twenty-five  years  ago. 
If  you'll  excuse  me,  I'll  say  it,  all  to  myself,  before 
I  go  to  sleep.' 

"  So  he  bade  us  good-night,  turned  over  on  his 
pillow,  and  softly  shut  his  eyes ;  his  lips  moved  a 
little  while,  and  then  he  went  to  sleep,  indeed. 
And  that's  all — not  much  of  a  war  story,  more  of 
the  Sunday-school  book  sort,  perhaps,  and  I  am  ob- 
liged to  you,  ma'am,  for  listening  to  it  so  patiently. 
Most  folks  prefer  to  hear  about  big  battles  and  famous 


TWO  SERMONS  ON  ONE  TEXT,  177 

generals.  I  really  hope,  though,  you  have  been  inter- 
ested in  poor  Eastman."  He  said  this  a  little  wist- 
fully, as  I  had  not  spoken  for  some  time.  I  threw 
up  my  veil  and  let  the  tears  hi  my  eyes  answer 
him. 


TWO  SAINTS  NOT  IN  THE  CALENDAR. 


SAINT  PHILIP. 

PHILIP  OTIS  did  not  seem  exactly  the  stuff  of 
which  saints  are  made,  being  a  young  man,  hand- 
some and  gay,  aristocratic,  witty,  worldly,  and  a 
lawyer.  He  fell  in  love  hetimes,  and  being  an 
eloquent  advocate,  speedily  wooed,  won,  and  mar- 
ried a  young  lady  of  rare  beauty  and  accomplish- 
ments. 

All  went  well  with  the  "  happy  pair  "  on  their 
bridal  tour,  till  one  fatal  day,  when  they  took  pas- 
sage on  a  certain  famous  railway,  then  just  opened 
— a  railway  with  a  broad  gauge,  and  everything 
on  a  broad  scale,  especially  casualties. 

On  this  day  there  was  the  usual  accident.  Philip 
Otis  escaped  with  slight  injuries — an  arm  and  a 
rib  or  two  broken — but  his  Alice  was  fearfully  hurt, 
disabled  for  life,  by  an  injury  to  the  spine.  When 
she  was  able  to  be  conveyed  to  her  beautiful  home 


TWO   SAINTS  NOT  IN  THE  CALENDAR.     179 

• 

on  the  Hudson,  it  was  on  a  couch  of  pain,  and  look- 
ing more  like  one  wasted  by  long  sickness,  and 
about  to  die,  than  like  the  bride  of  one  short  month. 
She  never  left  that  house  again,  and  she  lived  many 
weary,  hopeless  years.  In  all  that  time,  she  was 
only  lifted  from  one  couch  to  be  laid  upon  another. 
In  all  that  time  she  was  never  for  one  day  or  night 
quite  free  from  pain.  There  were  many  dark  hours, 
especially  during  the  first  years  of  her  trial,  when 
her  womanly  fortitude  and  her  sweet  temper,  even 
her  loving  faith  in  God,  failed  her,  and  she  was 
petulant,  exacting,  unreasonable,  and  rebellious. 
But,  in  all  that  sad  time,  Philip,  her  husband,  was 
gentle,  patient,  pitiful,  and  loving.  Whatever  the 
cares  and  perplexities  of  business,  he  nobly  cast 
them  from  him  as  he  approached  her,  in  whose 
shadowed  and  defeated  life  pain  and  sorrow  were 
doing  their  slow  work  of  sanctification.  Whatever 
temptations  and  evil  influences  might  approach  him, 
with  taint,  and  soil,  and  dark  allurements,  he  shook 
himself  free  of  them  at  the  threshold  of  that  cham- 
ber, and  brought  to  that  bedside  only  pure  thoughts 
and  clear  looks.  He  sought  to  surround  that  suffer- 
ing, waning  life  with  all  grace,  and  softness,  and 
beauty.  It  was  ministered  to  by  pleasant  service 
and  skilful  nursing,  cheered  by  bright  companion- 
ship, and  soothed  by  carefully  guarded  repose. 


180     TWO  SAINTS  NOT  IN  THE  CALENDAR. 

Exquisite  taste  reigned  in  that  chamber.  Carpet 
and  hangings  were  of  delicate  colors,  choice  pictures 
brightened  the  walls,  all  articles  of  furniture  and 
ornament  were  of  dainty,  classic  shapes.  Roses  and 
woodbine  were  trained  up  to  the  windows,  and 
never  a  day  in  all  the  year  was  the  little  stand  at 
the  head  of  poor  Alice's  couch  without  its  fresh 
bouquet  of  fragrant  flowers.  Here  Philip  brought 
the  choicest  new  books  and  periodicals ;  here  he 
related  the  last  good  story,  and  the  spiciest  bit  of 
literary,  political,  or  social  gossip. 

In  the  charmed  air  of  this  chamber  even  the 
Irish  servant-maid  did  her  "  spiriting  gently."  Not 
a  wave  of  the  great  flood  of  spring  house-cleaning 
was  allowed  to  break  rudely  in  upon  it ;  no  do- 
mestic jar,  no  shock  of  a  kitchen-convulsion  ever 
reached  it. 

One  still  night  hi  early  summer,  when  the  moon- 
light shimmered  on  the  river,  and  the  breath  of  roses 
filled  the  air,  Alice  Otis,  raised  a  little  on  her  pillows, 
lay  holding  Philip's  hand,  smiling  into  his  face,  and 
dying. 

"  Your  trial  is  drawing  to  a  close,  dear,"  she  said. 
"  At  first,  I  used  to  pray  that  it  might  be  shortened. 
Now,  I  thank  God  that  he  has  allowed  /me  to  live 
so  long  to  be  a  witness  to  your  goodness  and 
devotion.  I  have  often  been  very  trying,  childish, 


TWO  SAINTS  NOT  IN  THE  CALENDAR.     181 

and  perverse ;  but  you  have  been  a  good  husband 
always,  and  good  husbands  nowadays,  I  have  heard, 
are  rarer  than  saints  used  to  be.  You  were  fast 
becoming  my  saint,  and  perhaps  I  am  to  be  taken 
now,  lest  I  should  worship  you  too  utterly." 

"  O  Alice,  Alice ! "  sobbed  Philip,  "  you  have  been 
my  good  angel.  I  shall  lose  my  hold  on  heaven 
when  I  lose  you." 

"  No,  dear,  don't  say  so !  You  will  lose  only  this 
poor  shattered  shell  of  me.  My  love,  my  blessing 
will  stay  with  you  always,  Philip,  my  darling !  And 
if  I  have  done  anything  for  your  soul's  good,  in 
these  years  of  suffering,  I  will  not  say  I  am  sorry 
now  for  my  broken  life  and  your  disappointment. 
I  thank  you  for  your  long  patience,  for  all — all." 

That  was  the  last  her  lips  said  to  her  husband, 
but  the  love-light  shone  a  little  longer  in  her 
sweet,  wistful  eyes,  then  faded  out,  and  Saint 
Philip  kissed  down  their  white  lids  into  the  long 
peace. 


182     TWO  SAINTS  MOT  IN  TILE  CALENDAR. 


SAESTT  JOHN. 

SAINT  JOHN,  the  Second,  scarcely  the  Less,  was 
once  Captain  John  Ames,  of  the  Massachusetts 
Twelfth.  He  joined  the  army  very  early  in  the  war 
for  the  Union,  leaving  a  beautiful  young  wife  (John 
was  ten  years  older  than  Mary)  and  a  fine  little  boy, 
scarcely  a  twelvemonth  old. 

Before  he  went,  Captain  John  placed  wife  and 
child  quite  solemnly  under  the  care  of  a  relative — 
rather  a  gay  and  handsome  young  man  for  a  guar- 
dian, but  "  Such  a  good  fellow,"  as  John  said. 

That  was  a  light-hearted  little  wife  and  full  of 
patriotic  spirit ;  but  she  took  her  husband's  going 
very  hard  at  last,  and  cried  out  quite  wildly :  "  O 
John !  I  cannot,  cannot  have  you  leave  me.  Some- 
thing tells  me  not  to  let  you  go." 

"  Something  tells  me  I  must  go !  My  country ! 
So,  good-bye,  darling :  I  leave  you  and  baby  in  God's 
care  and  cousin  Harry's." 

Unconscious  presumption  of  a  loving,  loyal  heart ! 


TWO  SAINTS  NOT  IN  THE  CALENDAR.     183 

The  young  wife  was  sad  and  anxious,  for  what 
seemed  to  her  a  weary  space  of  time.  But  grief 
was  something  most  unnatural  to  a  bright,  gay  nature 
like  hers  :  the  spring  had  come,  all  the  world  was 
lovely,  there  was  still  baby  left  to  her,  and  cousin 
Harry  was  so  kind  and  amusing !  Then  came  cheer- 
ful, brave  letters  from  John,  who  passed  through 
several  dreadful  battles  safely.  And  cousin  Harry 
grew  more  and  more  kind  and  amusing.  His  devo- 
tion to  his  sacred  trust  was  something  quite  wonder- 
ful. He  was  almost  constantly  with  the  young  wife. 
At  first,  they  talked  much  of  John,  then  his  name 
ceased  to  be  spoken  between  them ;  for  there  came 
a  time  of  dreamy  drifting  down  a  smooth,  treacher- 
ous stream  of  romantic  sentiment,  into  the  rapids 
of  a  wild  passion,  which  ended  in  a  plunge  into  dark 
depths  of  sin  and  dishonor. 

But  the  "  brief  madness  "  was  over,  and  the  "  long 
despair  "  had  set  in,  when  news  came  that  Captain 
John  was  being  brought  home  from  a  great  battle, 
with  a  shattered  arm  and  a  wound  in  the  chest. 

It  chanced  that  cousin  Harry  had  just  then  a 
business  call  to  a  distant  city ;  so  there  was  only 
that  poor,  sinful  wife  and  her  baby-boy  to  welcome 
home  the  soldier.  Ah!  how  could  she  meet  his  eyes, 
when  his  look  in  the  eyes  of  her  baby  was  almost 
more  than  she  could  bear !  Instinctively  she  put 


184     TWO  SAINTS  NOT  IN  THE  CALENDAR. 

little  Willie  up  as  a  shield  before  her  own  woful, 
frightened  face,  when  at  last  she  met  her  husband ; 
but  he  put  the  child  aside  and  kissed  her  first.  She 
dared  not  return  that  kiss. 

The  long  journey  had  been  too  much  for  Captain 
John.  He  did  not  rally  as  was  hoped,  but  seemed 
to  sink  slowly  and  steadily.  And  all  the  while,  night 
and  day,  with  watchful,  wistful  tenderness,  his  erring 
wife  hoyered  about  him,  ministered  to  him  so  quietly, 
so  tremblingly,  that  the  sick  man  was  troubled  at  her 
strange,  sad  ways,  and  sought  often  to  cheer  her, 
for  he  was  still  hopeful  himself. 

One  day  Captain  John  was  sitting,  pale  and  lan- 
guid, in  an  easy-chair  by  an  open  window.  His  wife 
sat  before  him  on  a  low  stool,  with  his  feet  in  her 
lap.  She  had  been  bathing  and  wiping  them,  and 
was  now  rubbing  them  with  her  soft  white  hands. 
Suddenly  she  bent  down  and  kissed  them  with  pas- 
sionate tenderness. 

"O  Mary!  don't  now!"  said  Captain  John. 
"  Why,  do  you  know  that  is  the  first  real  kiss  you 
have  given  me  since  I  came  home?  and  on  my  feet ! 
and  there  goes  your  hair  over  them,  and  I  feel  your 
tears !  Ah !  dear,  I  am  but  a  poor  sinner  for  you  to 
play  Mary  Magdalene  to." 

"O  John!  John!"  she  cried,  "that  is  just  the 
name  for  me !  Jama  Magdalene,  and  no  more  your 


TIVO  SAINTS  NOT  IN  THE  CALENDAR.     185 

wife."  And  hiding  her  face  against  his  feet  and 
clinging  there,  she  told  him  all  the  dreadful  tale  in 
a  few  wild,  desperate  words. 

Once  she  felt  that  he  shuddered  from  his  wounded 
breast  to  the  feet  she  clasped ;  but  he  was  quite 
silent.  Then  went  on  in  Captain  John's  heart  a 
more  fearful  struggle  than  any  he  had  passed 
through  in  the  great  war.  But  there  came  a  mo- 
ment of  divine  victory,  and  Saint  John  spoke  : 

"  Come  here,  my  child." 

"  Xo,  no  !  my  place  is  at  your  feet,  or  lower  still, 
further  off — far  away  from  you  and  baby ;  for  I  am 
lost ! " 

"  No,  Mary,  not  while  I  have  one  arm  to  hold  you. 
Here  is  your  place  on  my  breast ;  which,  after  all, 
is  not  so  sore  and  broken  as  your  poor  heart.  "We 
must  try  to  forget  this,  Mary.  Let  us  call  it  a  dream 
— a  bad,  sad  dream,  and,  with  God's  help,  we  will 
begin  a  new  life  together." 


That  night,  baby  Will  was  brought  to  Saint  John's 
bed,  and  he  played  with  him  and  blessed  him. 
Then  he  talked  cheerfully  to  the  child's  mother, 
bade  her  take  some  rest,  and  kissed  her  good-night, 
with  a  smiling  pain  in  his  eyes  that  could  never  be 
forgotten,  never. 


186      TWO  SAINTS  NOT  IN  THE  CALENDAR. 

The  worn  watcher  did  sleep  quite  peacefully  that 
night,  her  heart  lightened  of  its  heavy,  torturing 
secret ;  but  she  was  wakened  early  by  the  nurse, 
who  said :  "  I  fear  there  is  a  change  in  the  captain." 
Poor  Mary  saw  it  as  soon  as  she  reached  her  hus- 
band's bedside.  But  she  made  no  outcry.  She  only 
knelt  and  kissed  the  hand  that  lay  on  the  coverlet, 
shuddering  to  find  how  cold  it  was.  Saint  John  felt 
the  kiss,  and  raised  the  hand  to  lay  it  on  her  head, 
trying  to  smooth,  in  the  old,  loving  way,  her  soft, 
fair  hair.  Then  he  said :  "  I  have  had  such  a  strange 
dream  about  you,  Mary — or  was  it  a  dream  ?  Ah, 
no !  I  remember  now.  Poor  child,  how  you  must 
have  suffered !  And  that's  the  reason  Harry  wasn't 
here  to  meet  me.  How  I  trusted  him!  But  you 
were  both  so  young.  We  agreed  to  consider  it  all 
a  dream,  didn't  we,  Mary  ?  And  we  are  to  begin  a 
new  life,  darling, — a  new  life.'* 

She  could  not  answer  him.  She  could  no  longer 
weep.  In  silent  awe  and  humble  adoration,  she 
waited  till  from  her  bowed  head  that  hand  fell  heav- 
ily, never  again  to  be  lifted  in  blessing  or  caress. 


RUNNING  AWAY  WITH  A  BALLOON. 


MANY  there  are  who  can  recall  a  time  of  radiant 
mid-summer  nights,  in  the  splendor  of  which  moon 
and  stars  had  comparatively  little  share — for  there 
had  suddenly  burst  on  our  Western  world  a  mag- 
nificent, celestial  stranger  from  foreign  parts,  "  with 
all  his  travelling  glories  on."  It  was  the  great 
comet  of  1858  on  the  grand  tour  of  the  universe. 

It  seemed  strange  that  petty  human  life  could 
go  on  as  usual  with  its  eating  and  drinking,  toil- 
ing, trafficking  and  pleasuring,  while  that  "  flaming 
minister,"  on  his  billion-leagued  circuit,  was  preach- 
ing the  wonders  of  infinite  immensity  and  power, 
and  the  nothingness  of  earth.  But  science  has 
robbed  celestial  apparitions  of  their  old  portentous 
significance.  The  comet  no  longer  runs  his  kindling 
race,  like  Vich-Alpine's  henchman,  with  his  fiery 
cross,  announcing  war  and  disaster, 

"Herald of  battle,  fate  and  fear." 
He  is  on  his  own  business  ;  not  ours. 


188       BUNNING  A  WAT  WITH  A  BALLOON. 

Under  the  tail  of  this  particular  comet  doubtless 
many  a  tale  of  love  was  told — in  the  light  of  his 
swift  splendors  many  a  tender  look  exchanged. 
The  astronomer  coolly  swept  the  starry  field  with 
his  glass,  unawed  by  the  irregular  night-guard 
patrolling  the  heavens,  and  the  robber  and  mur- 
derer disdained  the  awful  witness.  He  left  us  as 
he  found  us,  joined  to  our  mortal  idols — wise  in  our 
own  conceit,  week  and  worldly,  and  wicked,  but  no 
castaways  of  the  universe,  after  all. 

We  remember  that  comet-summer,  not  so  much 
for  its  grand  astronomical  event,  as  for  a  singular 
incident  that  more  nearly  touched  our  human  sym- 
pathies, which  will  grovel  in  poor  earthly  affairs, 
even  within  sight  of  the  most  august  celestial  phe- 
nomena. 

One  pleasant  Saturday  afternoon  during  the 
comet's  appearance,  an  aeronaut,  after  a  prosperous 
voyage,  descended  upon  a  farm,  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  a  large  market  town,  in  one  of  our  western 
states.  He  was  soon  surrounded  by  a  curious  group 
of  the  farmer's  family  and  laborers,  all  asking  eager 
questions  about  the  voyage  and  the  management  of 
the  balloon.  That,  secured  by  an  anchor  and  by  a 
rope  in  the  hand  of  the  aeronaut,  its  car  but  a  foot 
or  two  above  the  ground,  was  swaying  lazily  back- 
ward and  forward  in  the  evening  air.  It  was  a  good 


EUNNING  A  WAT  WITH  A  BALLOON.        189 

deal  out  of  wind,  and  was  a  sleepy  and  innocent 
monster  in  the  eyes  of  the  farmer,  who,  with  the 
owner's  permission,  led  it  up  to  his  house,  where,  as 
he  said,  he  could  "  hitch  it "  to  his  fence.  But  be- 
fore he  thus  secured  it,  his  three  children,  aged  re- 
spectively ten,  eight,  and  three,  begged  him  to  lift 
them  "  into  that  big  basket,"  that  they  might  sit  on 
"those  pretty  red  cushions."  While  the  attention 
of  the  aeronaut  was  diverted  by  more  curious  ques- 
tioners from  a  neighboring  farm,  this  rash  father 
lifted  his  darlings  one  by  one  into  the  car.  Chubby 
little  Johnnie  proved  the  "  ounce  too  much  "  for  the 
aerial  camel,  and  brought  him  to  the  ground ;  and 
then  unluckily  not  the  baby,  but  the  eldest  hope  of  the 
family  was  lifted  out.  The  relief  was  too  great  for 
the  monster.  The  volatile  creature's  spirits  rose  at 
once,  he  jerked  his  halter  out  of  the  farmer's  hand, 
and  with  a  wild  bound  mounted  into  the  air !  Vain 
was  the  aeronaut's  anchor.  It  caught  for  a  moment 
in  a  fence,  but  it  tore  away,  and  was  off,  dangling 
uselessly  after  the  runaway  balloon,  which  so  swiftly 
and  steadily  rose  that  in  a  few  minutes  those  two 
little  white  faces  peering  over  the  edge  of  the 
car  grew  indistinct,  and  those  piteous  cries  of 
"  papa !  "  "  mamma ! "  grew  faint  and  fainter  up  in 
the  air. 
When  distance  and  twilight  mists  had  swallowed 


190        RUNNING  AW  AT  WITH  A  BALLOON. 

up  voices  and  faces,  and  nothing  could  be  seen  but 
that  dark  cruel  shape,  sailing  triumphantly  away 
with  its  precious  booty,  like  an  aerial  privateer,  the 
poor  father  sank  down  helpless  and  speechless  :  but 
the  mother,  frantic  with  grief,  still  stretched  her 
yearning  arms  towards  the  inexorable  heavens,  and 
called  wildly  up  into  the  unanswering  void. 

The  aeronaut  strove  to  console  the  wretched  par- 
ents with  the  assurances  that  the  balloon  would  de- 
scend within  thirty  miles  of  the  town,  and  that  all 
might  be  well  with  the  children,  provided  it  did  not 
come  down  in  water,  or  in  deep  woods.  In  the 
event  of  its  descending  hi  a  favorable  spot,  there 
was  but  one  danger  to  be  apprehended ;  he  thought 
that  the  elder  child  might  step  out,  leaving  the 
younger  in  the  balloon.  Then  it  might  again  rise 
and  continue  its  voyage. 

"  Ah,  no,"  replied  the  mother,  "  Jennie  would 
never  stir  from  the  car,  without  Johnnie  in  her 
arms!" 

The  balloon  passed  directly  over  the  market  town, 
and  the  children,  seeing  many  people  hi  the  streets, 
stretched  out  their  hands  and  cried  loudly  for  help. 
But  the  villagers,  though  they  saw  the  bright  little 
heads,  heard  no  call. 

Amazed  at  the  strange  apparition,  they  might 
almost  have  thought  the  translated  little  creatures 


RUNNING  AWAY  WITH  A  BALLOON.        191 

small  angel  navigators  on  some  voyage  of  discovery, 
some  little  cherubic  venture  of  their  own,  as,  head- 
ing towards  the  rosy  cloud-lands  and  purple  islands 
of  sunset  splendor,  they  sailed  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  west,  and  faded  out  with  the  day. 

Some  company  they  had,  poor  little  sky- waifs ! 
Something  comforted  them,  and  allayed  their  wild 
terrors — something  whispered  them  that  below  the 
night  and  clouds,  was  home ;  that  above,  was  God ; 
that  wherever  they  might  drift  or  dash,  living  or 
dead,  they  would  still  be  in  His  domain,  and  under 
His  care— that  though  borne  away  among  the  stars, 
they  could  not  be  lost,  for  JBis  love  would  follow 
them. 

When  the  sunlight  all  went  away,  and  the  great 
comet  came  blazing  out,  little  Johnnie  was  appre- 
hensive that  it  might  come  too  near  their  airy  craft 
and  set  it  on  fire  with  a  whisk  of  its  dreadful  tail. 
But  when  his  sister  assured  him  that  that  fiery 
dragon  was  "  as  much  as  twenty  miles  away,"  and 
that  God  wouldn't  let  him  hurt  them,  he  was  tran- 
quillized, but  soon  afterward  said,  "  I  wish  he  would 
come  a  little  nearer,  so  I  could  warm  myself — I'm 
so  cold!" 

Then  Jennie  took  off  her  apron  and  wrapped  it 
about  the  child,  saying  tenderly  :  "  This  is  all  sister 
has  to  make  you  warm,  darling,  but  she'll  hug  you 


192        RUNNING  AWAY  WITH  A  BALLOON. 

close  in  her  arms,  and  we  shall  say  our  prayers  and 
you  shall  go  to  sleep." 

"  Why,  how  can  I  say  my  prayers  before  I  have 
my  supper  ?  "  asked  little  Johnnie. 

"  Sister  hasn't  any  supper  for  you,  or  for  herself, 
but  we  must  pray  all  the  harder,"  solemnly  re- 
sponded Jennie. 

So  the  two  baby-wanderers,  alone  in  the  wide 
heavens,  unawed  by  darkness,  immensity,  and 
silence,  by  the  presence  of  the  great  comet  and  the 
millions  of  unpitying  stars,  lifted  their  little  clasped 
hands,  and  sobbed  out  their  sorrowful,  "  Our 
Father,"  and  then  that  quaint  little  supplementary 
prayer : 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep; 
If  I  should  die  before  I  wake, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  take." 

"There!  God  heard  that  easy;  for  we  are  close 
to  him,  up  here,"  said  innocent  little  Johnnie. 

Doubtless  Divine  Love  stooped  to  the  little  ones, 
and  folded  them  in  perfect  peace — for  soon  the 
younger,  sitting  on  the  bottom  of  the  car,  with  his 
head  leaning  against  his  sister's  knee,  slept  as 
soundly  as  though  he  were  lying  in  his  own  little 
bed,  at  home ;  while  the  elder  watched  quietly 
through  the  long,  long  hours,  and  the  car  floated 


RUNNING  AWAY  WITH  A  BALLOON.        193 

gently  in  the  still  night  air,  till  it  hegan  to  sway 
and  rock  on  the  fresh  morning  wind. 

Who  can  divine  that  simple  little  child's  thoughts, 
speculations,  and  wild  imaginings,  while  watching 
through  those  hours  ?  She  may  have  feared  com- 
ing in  collision  with  a  meteor — for  many  were  abroad 
that  night,  scouts  and  heralds  of  the  great  comet 
— or  perhaps  being  cast  away  on  some  desolate  star- 
island,  or  more  dreary  still,  floating  and  floating  on 
night  and  day,  till  they  should  both  die  of  cold  and 
hunger.  Poor  babes  in  the  clouds ! 

At  length,  a  happy  chance,  or  Providence — we 
will  say  Providence — guided  the  little  girl's  wander- 
ing hand  to  a  cord  connected  with  the  valve ;  some- 
thing told  her  to  pull  it.  At  once  the  balloon  began 
to  sink,  slowly  and  gently,  as  though  let  down  by 
tender  hands ;  or  as  though  some  celestial  pilot 
guided  it  through  the  wild  current  of  air,  not  letting 
it  drop  into  lake,  or  river,  lofty  wood,  or  impenetra- 
ble swamp,  where  this  strange  unchild-like  experi- 
ence might  have  been  closed  by  a  death  of  unspeak- 
able horror ;  but  causing  it  to  descend  as  softly  as 
a  bird  alights,  on  a  spot  where  human  care  and  pity 
awaited  it. 

The  sun  had  not  yet  risen,  but  the  morning  twi- 
light had  come,  when  the  little  girl,  looking  over 

the  edge  of  the  car,  saw  the  dear  old  earth  coming 
13 


194        RUNNING  AWAY  WITH  A  BALLOON. 

nearer — "  rising  towards  them,"  she  said.  But 
when  the  car  stopped,  to  her  great  disappointment, 
it  was  not  on  the  ground,  but  caught  fast  in  the 
topmost  branches  of  a  tree.  Yet  she  saw  they  were 
near  a  house  whence  help  might  soon  come,  so  she 
awakened  her  brother  and  told  him  the  good  news, 
and  together  they  watched  and  waited  for  deliver- 
ance, hugging  each  other  for  joy  and  for  warmth ; 
for  they  were  very  cold. 

Farmer  Burton,  who  lived  in  a  lonely  house,  on 
the  edge  of  his  own  private  prairie,  was  a  famous 
sleeper  in  general,  but,  on  this  particular  morn- 
ing he  awoke  before  the  dawn,  and,  though 
he  turned  and  turned  again,  he  could  sleep  no  more. 
So,  at  last,  he  said  to  his  good  wife,  whom  he  had 
kindly  awakened  to  inform  her  of  his  unaccountable 
insomnolence, "  It's  no  use ;  I'll  just  get  up  and  dress, 
and  have  a  look  at  the  comet." 

The  next  that  worthy  woman  heard  from  her 
wakeful  spouse  was  a  frightened  summons  to  the 
outer  door.  It  seems,  that  no  sooner  did  he  step 
forth  from  his  house  than  his  eyes  fell  on  a  strange 
portentous  shape,  hanging  in  a  large  pear-tree,  about 
twenty  yards  distant.  He  could  see  in  it  no  likeness 
to  anything  earthly,  and  he  half  fancied  it  might 
be  the  comet,  who  having  put  out  his  light,  had 
come  down  there  to  perch.  In  his  fright  and 


RUNNING  AWAY  WITH  A  BALLOON.        195 

perplexity  he  did  what  every  wise  man  would  do  in 
a  like  extremity ;  he  called  on  his  valiant  wife. 
Reinforced  by  her,  he  drew  near  the  tree,  cautiously 
reconnoitring.  Surely  never  pear-tree  bore  such 
fruit! 

Suddenly  there  descended  from  the  thing  a  plain- 
tive trembling  little  voice.  "  Please  take  us  down. 
We  are  very  cold !  " 

Then  a  second  little  voice.  "  And  hungry  too. 
Please  take  us  down  !  " 

"  Why,  who  are  you  ?    And  where  are  you  ?  " 

The  first  little  voice  said  :  "  We  are  Mr.  Ilarwood's 
little  boy  and  girl,  and  we  are  lost  in  a  balloon." 

The  second  little  voice  said,  "It's  us,  and  we 
runned  away  with  a  balloon.  Please  take  us 
down." 

Dimly  comprehending  the  situation,  the  farmer, 
getting  hold  of  a  dancing  rope,  succeeded  in  pulling 
down  the  balloon. 

He  first  lifted  out  little  Johnnie,  who  ran  rapidly 
a  few  yards  toward  the  house,  then  turned  round, 
and  stood  for  a  few  moments,  curiously  surveying 
the  balloon.  The  faithful  little  sister  was  so  chilled 
and  exhausted  that  she  had  to  be  carried  into  the 
house  where,  trembling  and  sobbing,  she  told  her 
wonderful  story. 

Before  sunrise  a   mounted   messenger   was  dis- 


196       RUNNING  AWAY  WITH  A  BALLOON. 

patched  to  the  Harwood  home,  with  glad  tidings  of 
great  joy.  He  reached  it  in  the  afternoon,  and  a 
few  hours  later  the  children  themselves  arrived,  in 
state,  with  banners  and  music,  and  conveyed  in  a 
covered  hay- wagon  and  four. 

Joy -bells  were  rung  in  the  neighboring  town,  and 
in  the  farmer's  brown  house  the  happiest  family 
on  the  Continent  thanked  God  that  night. 


HOW  MALCOLM  CAM'  HAME. 


IT  is  strange  how  many  remarkable  and  import- 
ant events  are  sprung  upon  us,  without  anything 
like  a  fair  warning.  Thus  it  was  on  a  tranquil 
summer  evening,  just  like  many  that  has  preceded 
it,  that  the  widow  Anderson  sat  at  her  wheel, 
spinning  flax,  just  as  she  had  sat  on  many  a  summer, 
autumn,  winter,  and  spring  evening.  All  was  still ; 
flowers  and  insects  seemed  dropping  asleep;  little 
birds  peeped  drowsily  in  their  nests,  and  the  whole 
world  seemed  as  quiet  and  steady-going  as  the  old 
clock  in  the  corner — when,  something  happened  ! 

But  this  is  not  the  good  old-fashioned  regular  way 
of  beginning  a  story.  I  must  go  back  a  "  bittock." 

In  a  little  post-town,  among  the  Highlands  of 
Scotland,  far  away  from  any  great  city,  there  lived 
not  so  very  many  years  ago,  a  woman  much  re- 
spected and  well  beloved,  though  of  lowly  birth  and 
humble  fortunes — one  Mrs.  Jean  Anderson.  She 
had  been  left  a  widow,  with  one  son,  the  youngest 


198  HOW  MALCOLM  CAM'  HAME. 

and  last  of  several  promising  children.  She  was 
poor,  and  her  industry  and  economy  were  taxed  to 
the  utmost,  to  keep  herself  and  her  son,  who  was  a 
fine,  clever  lad,  and  to  give  him  the  education  he 
ardently  desired.  At  the  early  age  of  sixteen, 
Malcolm  Anderson  resolved  to  seek  his  fortune  in 
the  wide  world,  and  became  a  sailor.  He  made 
several  voyages  to  India  and  China,  and  always,  like 
the  good  boy  he  was,  brought  home  some  useful 
present  to  his  mother,  to  whom  he  gave  also  a  large 
portion  of  his  earnings.  But  he  never  liked  a  sea- 
faring life,  though  he  grew  strong  and  stalwart  in 
it ;  and  when  about  nineteen,  he  obtained  a  humble 
position  in  a  large  mercantile  house  in  Calcutta, 
where,  being  shrewd,  enterprising  and  honest,  like 
most  of  his  countrymen,  he  gradually  rose  to  a  place 
of  trust  and  importance,  and  finally  to  a  partnership. 
As  his  fortunes  improved,  his  mother's  circum- 
stances were  made  easier.  He  remitted  money 
enough  to  secure  to  her  the  old  cottage  home,  re- 
paired and  enlarged,  with  a  garden  and  lawn ;  and 
placed  at  her  command,  annually,  a  sum  sufficient  to 
meet  all  her  wants,  and  to  pay  the  wages  of  a  faith- 
ful servant,  or  rather  companion  ;  for  the  brisk,  in- 
dependent old  lady  stoutly  refused  to  be  served  by 
any  one. 
Entangled  in  business  cares,  Mr.  Anderson  never 


HOW  MALCOLM  CAM'  IIAME.  199 

found  time  and  freedom  for  the  long  voyage,  and  a 
visit  home  ;  till  at  last,  failing  health,  and  the  neces- 
sity of  educating  his  children,  compelled  him  to 
abruptly  wind  up  his  affairs,  and  return  to  Scotland. 
He  was  then  a  man  somewhat  over  forty,  but  look- 
ing far  older  than  his  years,  showing  all  the  usual  ill 
effects  of  the  trying  climate  of  India.  His  complex- 
ion was  a  sallow  brown ;  he  was  gray  and  somewhat 
bald,  with  here  and  there  a  dash  of  white  in  his  dark 
auburn  beard  ;  he  was  thin  and  a  little  bent,  but  his 
youthful  smile  remained  full  of  quiet  drollery,  and 
his  eye  had  not  lost  all  its  old  gleeful  sparkle,  by 
poring  over  ledgers,  and  counting  rupees. 

He  had  married  a  country-woman,  the  daughter 
of  a  Scotch  surgeon,  had  two  children,  a  son  and  a 
daughter.  He  did  not  write  to  his  good  mother  that 
he  was  coming  home,  as  he  wished  to  surprise  her, 
and  test  her  memory  of  her  sailor  boy. 

The  voyage  was  made  in  safety,  and  one  summer 
afternoon,  Mr.  Malcolm  Anderson  arrived  with  his 
family  at  his  native  town.  Putting  up  at  the  little 
inn,  he  proceeded  to  dress  himself  in  a  suit  of  sailor- 
clothes,  and  then  walked  out  alone.  By  a  by-path  he 
well  knew,  and  then  through  a  shady  lane,  dear  to  his 
young,  hazel-nutting  days,  all  strangely  unchanged, 
he  approached  his  mother's  cottage.  He  stopped 
for  a  few  moments  on  the  lawn  outside,  to  curb  down 


200  HOW  MALCOLM  CAM1  HAME. 

the  heart  that  was  bounding  to  meet  that  mother, 
and  to  clear  his  eyes  of  a  sudden  mist  of  happy  tears. 
Through  the  open  window  he  caught  a  glimpse  of 
her,  sitting  alone  at  her  spinning-wheel,  as  hi  the  old 
time.  But  alas,  how  changed !  Bowed  was  the  dear 
form,  once  so  erect,  and  silvered  the  locks  once  so 
brown,  and  dimmed  the  eyes,  once  so  full  of  tender 
brightness,  like  dew-sprent  violets.  But  the  voice, 
with  which  she  was  crooning  softly  to  herself,  was 
still  sweet,  and  there  was  on  her  cheek  the  same 
lovely  peach-bloom  of  twenty  years  ago. 

At  length  he  knocked,  and  the  dear  remembered 
voice  called  to  him  hi  the  simple,  old-fashioned  way — 
"  Coom  ben ! "  (now  comes  the  happening !)  The 
widow  rose  at  sight  of  a  stranger,  and  courteously 
offered  him  a  chair.  Thanking  her  in  an  assumed 
voice,  somewhat  gruff,  he  sank  down,  as  if  wearied, 
saying  that  he  was  a  wayfarer,  strange  to  the  coun- 
try, and  asking  the  way  to  the  next  town.  The 
twilight  favored  him  in  his  little  ruse  ;  he  saw  that 
she  did  not  recognize  him,  even  as  one  she  had  ever 
seen.  But  after  giving  him  the  information  he  de- 
sired, she  asked  him  if  he  was  a  Scotchman  by  birth. 

"  Yes,  madam,"  he  replied ;  "  but  I  have  been  away 
hi  foreign  parts  many  years.  I  doubt  if  my  own 
mother  would  know  me  now,  though  she  was  very 
fond  of  me  before  I  went  to  sea." 


HOW  MALCOLM  CAM1  HAME.  201 

"  Ah,  mon  !  it's  little  ye  ken  aboot  mithers,  gin  ye 
think  sae.  I  can  tell  ye  there  is  nae  mortal  memory 
like  theirs,"  the  widow  somewhat  warmly  replied ; 
then  added — "  And  where  hae  ye  been  for  sae  lang 
a  time,  that  ye  hae  lost  a'  the  Scotch  frae  your 
speech  ?  " 

"  In  India — in  Calcutta,  madam." 

"  Ah,  then,  it's  likely  ye  ken  something  o'  my  son, 
Mr.  Malcolm  Anderson." 

"Anderson?"  repeated  the  visitor,  as  though 
striving  to  remember.  "  There  be  many  of  that 
name  in  Calcutta ;  but  is  your  son  a  rich  merchant, 
and  a  man  about  my  age  and  size,  with  something 
such  a  figure-head  ?  " 

"  My  son  is  a  rich  merchant,"  replied  the  widow, 
proudly,  "  but  he  is  younger  than  you  by  mony  a 
long  year,  and  begging  your  pardon,  sir,  far  bonnier. 
He  is  tall  and  straight,  wi'  hands  and  feet  like  a 
lassie's  ;  he  had  brown,  curling  hair,  sae  thick  and 
glossy !  and  cheeks  like  the  rose,  and  a  brow  like 
the  snaw,  and  big  blue  een,  wi'  a  glint  in  them,  like 
the  light  of  the  evening  star ! — Na,  na,  ye  are  no  like 
my  Malcolm,  though  ye  are  a  guid  eneugh  body,  I 
dinna  doubt,  and  a  decent  woman's  son." 

Here  the  masquerading  merchant,  considerably 
taken  down,  made  a  movement  as  though  to  leave, 
but  the  hospitable  dame  stayed  him,  saying — "  Gin 


202  HOW  MALCOLM  CAM'  UAME. 

ye  hae  travelled  a'  the  way  frae  India,  ye  maun  be 
tired  and  hungry.  Bide  a  bit,  and  eat  and  drink  wi' 
us.  Margery!  come  down,  and  let  us  set  on  the 
supper ! " 

The  two  women  soon  provided  a  homely  but  tempt- 
ing repast,  and  they  all  three  sat  down  to  it — Mrs. 
Anderson  reverently  asking  a  blessing.  But  the 
merchant  could  not  eat.  He  was  only  hungry  for 
his  mother's  kisses — only  thirsty  for  her  joyful 
recognition  :  yet  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  say  to 
her — "I  am  your  son."  He  asked  himself,  half 
grieved,  half  amused — "  "Where  are  the  unerring 
natural  instincts  I  have  read  about  in  poetry  and 
novels  ?  " 

His  hostess,  seeing  he  did  not  eat,  kindly  asked  if 
he  could  suggest  anything  he  would  be  likely  to 
relish.  "  I  thank  you,  madam,"  he  answered ;  "  it 
does  seem  to  me  that  I  should  like  some  oatmeal 
porridge,  such  as  my  mother  used  to  make,  if  so  be 
you  have  any." 

"Porridge?"  repeated  the  widow.  "Ah,  ye 
mean  parritch.  Yes,  we  hae  a  wee  bit  left  frae  our 
dinner.  Gie  it  to  him,  Margery.  But,  mon,  it  is 
cauld." 

"  Never  mind  ;  I  know  I  shall  like  it,"  he  re- 
joined, taking  the  bowl,  and  beginning  to  stir  the 


7/0 W  MALCOLM  CAM'  NAME.  203 

porridge  with  his  spoon.  As  he  did  so,  Mrs.  Ander- 
son gave  a  slight  start,  and  bent  eagerly  toward  him. 
Then  she  sank  back  in  her  chair  with  a  sigh,  saying, 
in  answer  to  his  questioning  look — 

"  Ye  minded  me  o'  my  Malcolm,  then — just  in 
that  way  he  used  to  stir  his  parritch — gieing  it  a 
whirl  and  a  flirt.  Ah !  gin'  ye  were  my  Malcolm, 
my  poor  laddie  !  " 

"  Weel,  then,  gin  I  were  your  Malcolm,"  said  the 
merchant,  speaking  for  the  first  time  in  the  Scottish 
dialect,  and  in  his  own  voice,  "  or  gin  your  braw 
young  Malcolm  were  as  brown,  and  bald,  and  gray, 
and  bent,  and  old,  as  I  am,  could  you  welcome  him 
to  your  arms,  and  love  him  as  in  the  dear  auld  lang 
syne  ?  Could  you,  mither  ?  " 

All  through  this  touching  little  speech  the  widow's 
eyes  had  been  glistening,  and  her  breath  coming 
fast ;  but  at  that  word  "  mither"  she  sprang  up  with 
a  glad  cry,  and  tottering  to  her  son,  fell  almost  faint- 
ing on  his  breast.  He  kissed  her  again  and  again — 
kissed  her  brow,  and  her  lips,  and  her  hands,  while 
the  big  tears  slid  down  his  bronzed  cheeks  ;  while 
she  clung  about  his  neck  and  called  him  by  all  the 
dear  old  pet  names,  and  tried  to  see  in  him  all  the 
dear  old  young  looks.  By-and  by  they  came  back — 
or  the  ghosts  of  them  came  back.  The  form  in  her 


204  HOW  MALCOLM  CAM'  HAME. 

embrace  grew  comelier ;  love  and  joy  gave  to  it  a 
second  youth,  stately  and  gracious;  the  first  she 
then  and  there  buried  deep  in  her  heart — a  sweet 
beautiful,  peculiar  memory.  It  was  a  moment  of 
solemn  renunciation,  in  which  she  gave  up  the  fond 
maternal  illusion  she  had  cherished  so  long.  Then 
Booking  up  steadily  into  the  face  of  the  middle-aged 
man,  who  had  taken  its  place,  she  asked — "  Where 
hae  ye  left  the  wife  and  bairns  ?  " 

"  At  the  inn,  mother.  Have  you  room  for  us  all 
at  the  cottage  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  have — twa  good  spare-rooms,  wi'  large 
closets,  weel  stocked  wi'  linen  I  hae  been  spinning 
or  weaving  a'  these  lang  years  for  ye  baith,  and  the 
weans." 

"  Well,  mother  dear,  now  you  must  rest,'.'  rejoined 
the  merchant,  tenderly. 

"  Na,  na,  I  dinna  care  to  rest  till  ye  lay  me  down 
to  tak'  my  lang  rest.  There'll  be  time  eneugh 
between  that  day  and  the  resurrection,  to  f auld  my 
hands  in  idleness.  Now  'twould  be  unco  irksome. 
But  go,  my  son,  and  bring  me  the  wife — I  hope  I 
shall  like  her ;  and  the  bairns — I  hope  they  will  like 
me." 

I  have  only  to  say,  that  both  the  good  woman's 
hopes  were  realized.  A  very  happy  family  knelt 
down  in  prayer  that  night,  and  many  nights  after, 


HOW  MALCOLM  CAM'  HAME.  205 

in  the  widow's  cottage,  whose  climbing  roses  and 
woodbine  were  but  outward  signs  and  types  of  the 
sweetness  and  blessedness  of  the  love  and  peace 
within. 


A  NIGHT  OF  YEAES. 


A  SIMPLE,  OLD-FASHIONED  STORY. 


MANY  years  ago,  in  a  pleasant  town  in  the  interior 
of  my  native  state, — New  York, — lived  the  family 
with  which  this  "  ower  true  tale  "  has  to  do, — an 
honest  and  respectable  farmer,  named  Button, — his 
good  wife  and  two  fair  daughters, — Lucy,  a  noble 
girl  of  some  twenty  years,  and  Ellen,  a  year  or  two 
younger.  The  elder  was  winningly,  rather  than 
strikingly,  beautiful.  Under  a  manner  observable 
for  its  seriousness,  and  a  nun-like  serenity,  were 
concealed  an  impassioned  nature,  and  a  heart  of 
the  deepest  capacity  for  loving  and  suffering.  She 
was  remarkable  from  her  earliest  childhood  for  a 
voice  of  thrilling  and  haunting  sweetness.  Ellen 
Dutton  was  the  brilliant  opposite  of  her  sister ;  "  a 
born  beauty,"  whose  prerogative  of  prettiness  was 
to  have  her  irresponsible  own  way,  in  all  things,  and 
at  all  times.  An  indulgent  father,  a  weak  mother, 
and  an  idolizing  sister,  had  all  unconsciously  con- 


A  NIGHT  OF  YEARS.  207 

tributed  to  the  ruin  of  a  nature  not  at  the  first 
remarkable  for  strength  or  generosity. 

Where,  among  all  God's  creatures,  is  heartlessness 
so  seemingly  unnatural,  is  selfishness  so  detestable, 
as  in  a  beautiful  woman? 

Lucy  possessed  a  fine  intellect,  and  as  her  parents 
were  well-reared  New  Englanders,  she  and  her  sister 
were  far  better  educated  than  other  girls  of  their 
station,  in  that  then  half-settled  portion  of  the  coun- 
try. In  those  days,  many  country  girls  engaged  in 
school-teaching,  for  the  honor  and  pleasure  which  it 
afforded,  rather  than  from  necessity.  Thus,  a  few 
months  previous  to  the  commencement  of  our  sketch, 
Lucy  Dutton  left  for  the  first  time  her  fireside  circle, 
to  take  charge  of  a  school,  some  twenty  miles  from 
her  native  town. 

For  a  while,  her  letters  home  were  expressive 
only  of  the  happy  contentment  which  sprang  from  the 
consciousness  of  active  usefulness,  of  receiving,  while 
imparting  good.  Then  there  came  a  change ;  and 
those  records  for  home  were  characterized  by  fitful 
gayety,  or  dreamy  sadness  ;  indefinable  hopes  and 
fears  seemed  striving  for  supremacy  in  the  writer's 
troubled  little  heart.  Lucy  loved;  but  scarcely 
acknowledged  it  to  herself,  while  she  knew  not 
that  she  was  loved;  so,  for  a  time,  that  beautiful 
second  birth  of  woman's  nature  was  like  a  warm 


208  A  NIGHT  OF  YEARS. 

sunrise,  struggling  with  the  cold  mists  of  morn- 
ing. 

But  one  day  brought  a  letter  which  could  not 
soon  be  forgotten  in  the  home  of  the  absent  one ;  a 
letter  traced  by  a  hand  that  trembled  in  sympathy, 
with  a  heart  tumultuous  with  happiness.  Lucy  had 
been  wooed  and  won,  and  she  but  waited  her  parents' 
approval  of  her  choice,  to  become  the  betrothed  of 
young  Edwin  Willard,  a  man  of  excellent  family 
and  standing,  in  the  town  where  she  had  been  teach- 
ing. The  father  and  mother  accorded  their  sanc- 
tion, with  many  blessings,  and  Lucy's  next  letter 
promised  a  speedy  visit  from  the  lovers. 

When  they  came,  warm  welcomes  and  rural  fes- 
tivities awaited  them.  Mr.  Willard  gave  entire  sat- 
isfaction to  father,  mother,  and  even  to  the  exacting 
"beauty."  He  was  a  handsome  man,  with  some 
pretensions  to  fashion ;  but  in  manner,  and  appar- 
ently in  character,  the  opposite  of  his  betrothed. 

It  was  decided  that  Lucy  should  not  again  leave 
home  until  after  her  marriage,  which,  at  the  request 
of  the  ardent  lover,  was  to  be  celebrated  within  two 
months,  and  on  the  coming  birthday  of  the  bride- 
elect.  It  was  therefore  arranged  that  Ellen  should 
return  with  Mr.  Willard,  to  take  charge  of  her  sis- 
ter's school  for  the  remainder  of  the  term. 

The  bridal  birthday  was  ushered  in  by  a  May 


A  NIGHT  OF  YEARS.  209 

morning  of  surpassing  loveliness ;  the  busy  hours 
wore  away  till  it  was  sunset,  and  neither  the  bride- 
groom, nor  Ellen,  the  first  bridesmaid,  had  appeared. 
Yet  in  her  noat  little  chamber,  sat  Lucy,  nothing 
doubting,  nothing  fearing.  She  was  already  dressed 
in  a  simple  white  muslin  gown,  and  her  few  bridal 
adornments  lay  on  the  table,  by  her  side.  Maria  Allen, 
her  second  bridesmaid,  a  bright-eyed  affectionate 
girl,  her  chosen  friend  from  childhood,  was  arranging 
to  a  more  graceful  fall,  the  wealth  of  light  ringlets 
which  swept  her  snowy  neck.  To  the  wondering 
suggestions  of  her  companion,  grown  anxious  at 
last,  Lucy  smiled  silently,  or  replied  almost  carelessly 
so  perfect  was  her  trust — "  Oh,  something  has  hap- 
pened to  detain  them  awhile ;  we  heard  from  them 
the  other  day,  and  all  was  well.  They  will  be  here 
by-and-by,  never  fear." 

Evening  came,  the  guests  were  all  assembled,  and 
yet  "the  bridegroom  tarried."  There  were  whisper- 
ings, surmises,  and  wondermgs,  and  a  shadow  of 
anxiety  occasionally  passed  over  Lucy's  face.  At 
last  a  carriage  drove  rather  slowly  to  the  door. 
"  Here  they  are !  "  cried  many  voices,  and  the  next 
moment  the  belated  bridegroom  and  Ellen  entered. 
In  reply  to  the  hurried  and  confused  inquiries  of  all 
round  him,  Mr.  Willard  muttered  something  about 

"  unavoidable  delay,"  and  stepping  to  the  sideboard, 
14 


210  A  NIGHT  OF  TEARS. 

tossed  off  a  glass  of  wine,  another,  and  another. 
The  company  stood  silent  with  amazement.  Finally 
a  rough  old  farmer  exclaimed,  "  Better  late  than 
never,  young  man,  so  lead  out  the  bride  ! " 

Willard  strode  hastily  across  the  room,  placed 
himself  by  Ellen  and  took  her  hand  in  his  !  Then, 
without  daring  to  meet  the  eyes  of  any  about 
him,  he  said,  "  I  wish  to  make  an  explanation ;  I 
am  under  the  painful  necessity — that  is,  I  have 
the  pleasure  to  announce  that  I  am  already  mar- 
ried. The  lady  whom  I  hold  by  the  hand — is  my 
wife!" 

Then  turning  in  an  apologetic  manner  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Dutton,  he  added,  "  I  found  that  I  had  never 
loved,  until  I  knew  your  second  daughter !  " 

And  Lucy !  She  heard  all  with  strange  calm- 
ness, then  walked  steadily  forward  and  confronted 
her  betrayers !  Terrible  as  pale  Nemesis  herself, 
she  stood  before  them,  and  her  look  pierced  like  a 
keen,  cold  blade  into  their  false  hearts.  As  though 
to  assure  herself  of  the  reality  of  the  vision,  she  laid 
her  hand  on  Ellen's  shoulder,  and  let  it  glide  down 
her  arm ;  but  did  not  touch  Edwin.  As  those  cold 
ringers  met  hers,  the  unhappy  wife  first  gazed  full 
into  her  sister's  face ;  and  as  she  marked  the  ghastly 
pallor  of  her  cheek,  the  dilated  nostrils,  the  quiver- 
ing lip,  and  the  intensely  mournful  eyes,  she  covered 


A  NIGHT  OF  YEARS.  211 

her  own  face  with  her  hands,  and  burst  into  tears, 
while  the  young  husband,  awed  by  the  terrible  silence 
of  her  he  had  wronged,  gasped  for  breath,  and  stag- 
gered back  against  the  wall.  Then  Lucy,  clasping 
her  hands  on  her  forehead,  first  gave  voice  to  her 
anguish  and  despair,  in  one  fearful  cry,  which  could 
but  ring  forever  through  the  souls  of  that  guilty 
pair,  and  fell  in  a  deathlike  swoon  at  their  feet. 

After  the  insensible  girl  had  been  removed  to  her 
own  room,  a  stormy  scene  ensued  in  the  room  be- 
neath. The  parents  and  guests  were  alike  enraged 
against  Willard ;  but  the  tears  and  prayers  of  his 
young  wife,  the  petted  beauty  and  spoiled  child,  at 
last  softened  somewhat  the  anger  of  the  parents,  and 
an  opportunity  for  an  explanation  was  accorded  to 
the  offenders. 

A  sorry  explanation  it  proved.  The  gentleman 
affirmed  that  the  first  sight  of  Ellen's  lovely  face 
weakened  the  empire  of  her  plainer  sister  over  his 
affections.  Frequent  interviews  had  completed  the 
conquest  of  his  loyalty  ;  but  he  had  been  held 
in  check  by  honor,  and  never  told  his  love,  until 
when,  on  the  way  to  Castleton,  in  an  unguarded 
moment,  he  had  revealed  it,  and  the  avowal  had 
called  forth  an  answering  confession  from  Ellen. 

They  had  thought  it  best,  in  order  "  to  save  pain 
to  Lucy,"  prevent  opposition  from  her,  and  secure 


212  A  NIGHT  OF  YEAES. 

their  own  happiness,  to  be  married  before  their 
arrival  at  the  farm-house. 

Lucy  remained  insensible  for  hours.  When  she 
revived  and  had  apparently  regained  her  conscious- 
ness, she  still  maintained  her  strange  silence.  This 
continued  for  many  weeks,  and  when  it  partially 
passed  away,  her  friends  saw  with  inexpressible 
grief,  that  her  reason  had  given  way, — she  was 
hopelessly  insane !  But  her  madness  was  of  a  mild 
and  harmless  nature.  She  was  gentle  and  peaceable 
as  ever,  but  sighed  frequently,  and  seemed  burdened 
with  some  great  sorrow  which  she  could  not  herself 
comprehend.  There  seemed  almost  a  total  annihi- 
lation of  memory.  She  had  one  peculiarity,  which 
all  who  knew  her  hi  after  years  must  recollect ;  this 
was  a  wild  fear  and  careful  avoidance  of  men.  She 
also  seemed  possessed  by  the  spirit  of  unrest.  She 
could  not,  she  would  not  be  kept  in  one  place,  but 
was  continually  escaping  from  her  friends,  and  going 
they  knew  not  whither.  While  her  parents  lived, 
they  by  their  watchful  care  and  unwearying  efforts, 
in  some  measure,  controlled  this  sad  propensity; 
but  when  they  died,  their  stricken  child  became  a 
wanderer,  homeless,  friendless  and  forlorn. 

In  those  times,  so  often  referred  to,  as  "  the  good 
old  days,"  there  were  nowhere  except  in  our  large 
cities,  asylums  for  the  insane— or  any  refuge  for 


A  NIGHT  OF  TEARS.  213 

them,  except  the  common  alms-house — or,  as  it  was 
then  always  called,  "  the  poor-house," — usually  so 
utterly  wretched  an  abode  that  the  most  miserable 
demented  creatures  avoided  it,  or  fled  from  it  and 
wandered,  after  their  "  wandering  wits." 

But  I  should  not  have  said  that  Lucy  Dutton  was 
friendless.  Nearly  all  people  in  that  simple  rural 
community  were  kind  to  her,  and  many  a  Christian 
family  gave  her  shelter  from  storm  and  cold.  Though 
she  never  begged,  she  was  never  allowed  to  suffer 
from  want,  when  it  could  be  prevented.  In  some 
quiet  farm-houses,  where  no  men  were,  she  sometimes 
lingered  for  days  at  a  time,  and  patiently  worked 
to  pay  for  food  and  old  clothes, — seeming  very  grate- 
ful for  care  and  rest, — then  the  mad  spell  would 
come  upon  her  and  whirl  her  away.  Some  good 
woman  always  took  her  in  at  night,  as  she  was 
known  to  be  so  gentle  and  harmless.  She  had  the 
hardy  habits  of  a  gipsy,  or  Indian  woman,  preferring 
to  lie  down  on  a  bare  kitchen  floor,  wrapped  in  an 
old  shawl,  or  to  burrow  in  the  hay-mow  of  a  barn, 
to  sleeping  in  a  Christian  bed. 

I  remember  "  Crazy  Lucy  "  as  she  was,  in  the  time 
of  my  early  childhood,  towards  the  last  of  her  weary 
pilgrimage.  In  her  great  circuits,  which  included 
all  the  county,  she  was  sure  to  come  round  to  our 
house.  Her  first  timid  question  to  one  of  us  chil- 


214  A  NIGHT  OF  YEARS. 

dren  was — "  My  dear,  are  there  any  men  about  ?  "  If 
we  could  not  answer  "  No,"  she  passed  on,  however 
weary  she  might  be !  But  if  my  father  and  elder 
brothers  were  absent,  she  took  great  comfort  at  our 
fireside,  my  mother  being  especially  kind  to  her. 
The  appearance  of  the  poorfolle  was  touching,  though 
grotesque.  Her  face  was  still  fair  and  smooth,  but 
often  wearing  a  frightened  expression,  and  her  hair, 
prematurely  blanched,  hung  in  fleecy  locks,  from 
under  the  torn  brim  of  what  had  once  been  a  fine, 
Leghorn  bonnet.  Her  gown  was  many-colored,  with 
patches,  and  her  shawl,  or  mantle,  faded,  worn  and 
forlornly  limp.  The  remainder  of  her  miserable 
wardrobe  she  carried  in  a  pack  on  her  shoulders, 
and  usually  had  in  her  hands  a  number  of  parcels  - 
of  bright  colored  rags,  dried  herbs,  and  bits  of  bread. 
In  the  season  of  flowers,  her  tattered  bonnet  was 
profusely  decorated  with  blossoms,  gathered  in  the 
wood  or  by  the  wayside.  Her  love  for  these  and 
her  sweet  voice  were  all  that  were  left  her  of  the 
bloom  and  music  of  existence.  Yet,  no !  her  meek 
and  childlike  piety  still  lingered.  Her  God  had  not 
forsaken  her ;  down  into  the  dim  chaos  of  her  spirit, 
the  smile  of  His  love  yet  gleamed  faintly  ;  in  the 
waste  garden  of  her  heart  she  still  heard  His  voice 
in  the  evening,  and  was  not  "  afraid."  Her  Bible 
went  with  her  everywhere, — a  torn  and  soiled,  vol- 


A  NIGHT  OF  YEARS.  215 

ume,  but  as  holy  still,  and  it  may  be  as  dearly  cher- 
ished, my  lady,  as  the  gorgeous  copy  now  lying  on 
your  table,  bound  in  "  purple  and  gold  "  and  with 
the  gilding  untarnished  upon  its  delicate  leaves. 

I  remember  to  have  heard  my  mother  relate  a 
touching  little  incident,  connected  with  one  of  Lucy's 
brief  visits  to  us.  The  poor  creature  laid  her  hand 
on  the  curly  head  of  one  of  my  brothers,  and  asked  of 
him  his  name.  "  William  Edwin,"  he  replied,  with 
a  timid,  upward  glance.  She  caught  away  her  hand, 
and  sighing  heavily,  said  as  though  thinking  aloud, 
"  I  knew  an  Edwin  once,  and  he  made  me  broken- 
hearted." 

This  was  the  only  instance  in  which  she  was  ever 
known  to  revert  to  the  sad  event  which  had  deso- 
lated her  life. 

###### 

Forty  years  from  the  time  of  the  commencement 
of  this  little  history,  on  a  bleak  autumnal  evening, 
a  rough  country  wagon  drove  into  the  village  of 
Castleton  and  stopped  at  the  alms-house  :  an  atten- 
uated form  was  lifted  out,  and  carried  in,  and  the 
wagon  rumbled  away.  Thus  was  Lucy  Dutton 
brought  to  her  native  town  to  die. 

She  had  been  in  a  decline  for  some  months,  and 
the  miraculous  strength  which  had  so  long  sustained 
her,  in  her  weary  wanderings,  at  last  forsook  her, 


216  A  NIGHT  OF  YEARS. 

utterly.  Her  sister  had  died  some  time  before,  and 
the  widowed  husband  had  soon  after  removed  with 
his  family  to  the  Far  West ;  so  Lucy  had  no  friends, 
no  home  but  the  alms-house. 

But  they  were  very  kind  to  her  there.  The  matron, 
a  true  woman,  whose  soft  heart  even  the  hourly  con- 
templation of  human  misery  could  not  harden,  gave 
herself  with  unwearying  devotion  to  the  care  of  the 
quiet  sufferer.  With  the  eye  of  Christian  faith,  she 
watched  the  shattered  bark  of  that  poor  life,  as,  drift- 
ing down  the  tide  of  time,  it  neared  the  great  deep 
of  eternity,  with  an  interest  as  intense  as  though  it 
had  been  a  royal  galley. 

One  day,  about  a  week  from  the  time  of  her  ar- 
rival, Lucy  appeared  to  suffer  greatly,  and  those 
about  her  looked  for  her  release,  almost  impatiently ; 
but  at  night  she  was  evidently  better,  and,  for  the 
first  time,  slept  tranquilly  till  morning.  The  matron, 
who  was  by  her  bedside  when  she  awoke,  was  star- 
tled by  the  clear  and  earnest  gaze  which  met  her 
own,  but  she  smiled  and  bade  the  invalid  "  good- 
morning  ! "  Lucy  looked  bewildered,  but  the  voice 
seemed  to  re-assure  her,  and  she  exclaimed, 

"  Oh,  what  a  long,  long  night  this  has  been !  " 
Then  glancing  around  inquiringly,  she  added : 

"  Where  am  I  ?  and  who  are  you  ?  I  do  not  know 
you."  A  wild  surmise  flashed  across  the  mind  of 


A  NIGHT  OF  YEAES.  217 

the  matron — the  long  lost  reason  of  the  wanderer  had 
returned !  But  the  good  woman  replied  calmly  and 
soothingly : 

"  Why,  you  are  among  your  friends,  and  you  will 
know  me  presently." 

"  Then  may  be  you  know  Edwin  and  Ellen,"  re- 
joined the  invalid  ;  "  have  they  come  ?  Oh,  I  had 
such  a  terrible  dream  !  I  dreamed  that  they  were 
married !  Only  think,  Ellen  married  to  Edwin  !  It 
it  strange  I  should  dream  that." 

"  My  poor  Lucy,"  said  the  matron,  with  a  gush  of 
tears,  "  that  was  not  a  dream  ;  it  was  all  true." 

"  All  true !  "  cried  the  invalid,  "  then  Edwin  must 
be  untrue,  and  that  cannot  be,  for  he  loved  me ;  we 
loved  each  other  well,  and  Ellen  is  my  sister.  Let 
me  see  them !  I  will  go  to  them ! " 

She  endeavored  to  raise  herself,  but  fell  back  faint- 
ing on  the  pillow. 

"  Why,  what  does  this  mean  ?  "  she  said ;  "  what 
makes  me  so  weak  ?  " 

Just  then,  her  eye  fell  on  her  own  hand,  that 
withered  hand !  She  gazed  on  it  in  blank  amaze- 
ment. "  Something  is  the  matter  with  my  sight," 
she  said  smiling  faintly,  "  for  my  hand  looks  to  ine 
like  an  old  woman's." 

"  And  so  it  is,"  said  the  matron  gently,  "  and  so  is 
mine ;  and  yet  we  had  fair,  plump  hands  when  we 


218  A  NIGHT  OF  YEARS. 

were  young.  Dear  Lucy,  do  you  not  know  me  ?  lam 
Maria  Allen;  I  was  to  have  been  your  brides- 
maid!" 

I  will  not  attempt  to  give  in  detail  all  that  mourn- 
ful revelation,  to  reduce  to  inexpressive  words  the 
boundless  desolation  and  loss  of  that  hopeless  sor- 
row. 

To  the  wretched  Lucy  the  last  forty  years  were  as 
though  they  had  never  been.  Of  not  a  scene,  not  an 
incident  had  she  the  slightest  remembrance,  since 
those  of  the  night  when  the  false  lover  and  the  treach- 
erous sister  stood  before  her  and  made  their  terrible 
announcement. 

The  kind  matron  paused  frequently  in  the  sad 
narration  of  her  poor  friend's  madness  and  wander- 
ings ;  but  the  invalid  would  say  with  fearful  calm- 
ness, "  Go  on,  go  on,"  though  the  sweat  of  agony 
stood  thick  upon  her  forehead  and  her  thin  hands 
were  clenched.  When  she  asked  for  her  sister,  the 
matron  replied, 

"  She  has  gone  before  you,  and  your  father  also." 

"  And  my  mother,"  said  Lucy,  her  face  lit  with  a 
sickly  ray  of  hope. 

"  Your  mother  has  been  dead  for  twenty  years." 

"  Dead !  All  gone !  Alone,  old,  dying !  Oh  God, 
my  cup  of  bitterness  is  full !  "  she  cried,  weeping,  at 
last. 


A  NIGHT  OF  YEARS.  219 

Her  friend,  bending  over  her,  and  mingling  tears 
with  hers,  said  affectionately  : 

"  But  you  know  who  drank  such  a  cup  before 
you." 

Lucy  looked  up  with  a  bewildered  expression,  and 
the  matron  added, 

"  The  Lord  Jesus,  you  remember  him." 

A  look  like  sunlight  breaking  through  a  cloud,  a 
look  which  only  saints  may  wear,  irradiated  the  tear- 
ful face  of  the  dying  woman,  as  she  replied, 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  knew  my  Saviour  and  loved  Him,  before 
I  fell  asleep." 

A  good  minister  was  called.  A  few  who  had 
known  Lucy  in  her  early  days  came  also.  There 
was  much  reverential  wondering  and  some  weeping 
around  her  death-bed.  Then  rose  the  voice  of 
prayer.  At  first  her  lips  moved,  as  her  weak  spirit 
joined  in  that  fervent  appeal ;  then  they  grew  still, 
and  poor  Lucy  was  dead — dead  in  her  white-haired 
youth ! 

But  those  who  gazed  upon  that  placid  face,  and 
remembered  her  harmless  life  and  her  patient  suffer- 
ing, doubted  not  that  the  morn  of  an  eternal  day 
had  broken  on  her  night  of  years. 


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